


the bridge between your houses

by senpen_banka



Category: Naruto
Genre: Banter, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Comedy, Exes, Family Drama, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kabuto-centric, M/M, Mental Health Issues, On-Again/Off-Again Relationship, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trans Character, Trauma, Unhealthy Relationships, ik these tags are intense but it's mostly a precaution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-08-18 20:35:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16524194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/senpen_banka/pseuds/senpen_banka
Summary: A year and a half after the Fourth Shinobi World War, Kabuto struggles to break free of old habits and acclimate to a new life in Konohagakure. Orochimaru, for his part, discovers that rebuilding a new Otogakure from the ground up might be more challenging than expected, especially with a new philosophy and no right-hand man. Meanwhile, under the surface, forces within Konoha conspire to uphold the old regime and resist a new world order at any cost. Drawn into this conflict against their wills, Kabuto and Orochimaru are forced to reckon with the animosity between them before others are hurt in the crossfire.





	1. terrible silence

Deep beneath the surface of Konohagakure, in the underground chambers that once housed Root, there is movement for the first time in over two years.

Standing in the doorway of a vacant room, a hooded and masked figure holds up a small torch and illuminates the interior: cobwebs, a dust-covered desk, filing cabinets and bookshelves that have been stripped of their contents, leaving only a yawning void. At the edges of the room, spiders scurry away from the light and back into the shadows. The figure says to his companion, “Just as I thought. They took everything.”

“No matter,” the other figure, with a lower voice, replies. “We anticipated that this would be a setback.”

“It’s more than a setback. If they’ve gotten to all the documents in the headquarters, then that means they have all the incriminating intel they need to start identifying members and starting a full-scale witch hunt. We’ll lose all our manpower.”

The other shakes his head, its own hood casting a shadow over the avian mask it wears. “No. They have other priorities right now. They’re still rebuilding and recovering from the war. And besides, rounding up political opponents for imprisonment or execution isn’t the Godaime’s style. She’s more likely to let sleeping dogs lie.” The second figure steps into the room, where in the corner, a wooden cane leans forgotten against the wall. He crosses over to it, picking it up by its T-shaped handle. “Which works to our advantage.”

“Tera,” the first figure says, a note of warning in his voice. “That was his, wasn’t it?”

“One of several, I believe.” Tera sets the cane down atop the desk, lifting his hands together. “But if my sources haven’t misled me, then this particular decoy should have the message we’ve been looking for.”

“Your sources?”

Tera glances over his shoulder at his companion, who wears a feline mask beneath his hooded cloak. “I don’t think you realize, Dajimu,” he says, “just how many faithful acolytes are left remaining.” With that, he performs several hand signs and utters, “Kai,” and in a puff of smoke, a thin scroll takes the place of the wooden cane. There is a hushed intake of breath between the both of them.

“I’ll be damned,” Dajimu says quietly.

For a moment, Tera says nothing, picking up the scroll slowly and reading its labeled seal. “‘In the event of my death,’” he says out loud, and a thrilled undercurrent runs beneath his monosyllabic tone. “This is it, Dajimu. This is how we’ll assemble our forces again. We’ll see that this village doesn’t lose its way for good.”

On the seal, beneath the inscription Tera has read aloud, is the name of Root’s late founder. _Shimura Danzō_.

* * *

Not for the first time in recent memory, Kabuto finds himself having some regrets.

Grimacing at the aftertaste of the cheap cigarettes he got from the vending machine downstairs, he considers the one he holds between his fingers. He watches the paper burn away and disintegrate, red-hot embers smoldering from within. Yet again, his efforts to relax with a quick smoke afterwards have been thwarted—he barely registers any change in his dopamine levels, his muscles still tense from stress. Mostly he would really just like a drink of water. Maybe he lacks the disposition for smoking. The affect.

Or maybe that’s stupid, he doesn’t know. He takes one more drag, slowly, looking out into the rainy haze of the night. From his place leaning against the balcony of the inn’s second floor, he looks over at the adjacent windows, noting which rooms are uninhabited and which glow with warm orange light from within. He wonders who their occupants could be.

It isn’t the most reputable establishment: situated far in the north of the Land of Fire, close to the border of the Land of Sound, it is run by an opportunistic manager in the habit of overlooking his guests’ activities, for the right price. Mostly this means that the inn functions as a makeshift love hotel, but Kabuto has also overheard “guests” striking deals over drugs and weapons behind closed doors, and the manager has always been happy to let those with power and influence stay at his inn free of charge. Especially the person who installed him there to begin with, frightening off the building’s previous residents and asking for nothing in return but a room that was always kept empty for him.

Kabuto never asked Orochimaru if he used the room for anything other than a place for them to rest whenever they couldn’t make the full journey home from the Land of Fire. He supposes he didn’t really want to know.

“Is your plan to stand out there acting pensive until you catch pneumonia, Kabuto? If so, tell me now so I can find someone else in this building who’s willing to fuck me.”

Orochimaru’s voice, once so electrifying to him, feels now like a rusted sword in his side. It grates, filling him with a sense of unfathomable loathing and dread. To be fair, it had that effect on numerous occasions in the past as well, but now the effect has intensified.

He tosses the only half-finished cigarette over the edge of the balcony into the mud below, turning to face his former master.

Orochimaru reclines on the bed in the sparsely furnished, somewhat dingy room, where the candlelight at least has the welcome effect of obscuring places where paint has chipped or mold has started to grow. The sheets, thin and off-color, smell of sex, and Kabuto has half a mind to light a stick of incense on the dresser so he can ignore the evidence of the past several hours. Though he guesses that would be difficult with Orochimaru draping himself across every surface he can find, loose strands of hair falling over his golden eyes, his dark blue bathrobe barely covering his shoulders or legs.

God, Kabuto really thought he was past all this.

“I’ve already fucked you twice,” he says flatly, walking back into the room and sliding the shōji door shut nonetheless.

“Your stamina isn’t what it used to be, I see.”

“I can’t stay here all night. I need to get back.”

“Ah, yes,” Orochimaru says, and his chuckle is humorless and derisive. Kabuto can see the scorn burning in his eyes as he wets his lips. Lying on his side with his head in his hand, he resembles a reclining Buddha statue, or perhaps an empress. Even here, in this room, even now—there is a certain regality to all his movements, to his speech. A certain way that he comports himself, seductive and inspiring fear in equal measure. Kabuto wishes he could say it didn’t affect him anymore. “You don’t want to miss your curfew, isn’t that right?”

Kabuto is prepared for the barb, more so than he was the last two or three times they met like this, when such remarks would set him off. This time, he simply folds his arms and deadpans, “That’s right. Should I go and tell your babysitter out there that you’ll be heading out soon?” He inclines his head in the direction of the trees outside, where earlier he saw the Anbu shinobi Konoha has tailing Orochimaru lying in wait. As always. Kabuto wonders how sick Yamato must be of the routine that Orochimaru and his former subordinate seem to have unwittingly fallen into. Kabuto understands. He’s sick of it too.

And yet. When Orochimaru hums, shifting and stretching so that the fabric of his robe slides completely away from his left thigh, Kabuto finds himself looking, then looking away too quickly. He hates that Orochimaru notices, a subtle victorious glint in his eyes. “Will I be?”

For a moment, Kabuto just stares at him, trying to convey that he isn’t impressed. “Tell me something,” he says. “If there are so many eager volunteers ready and willing to perform this role for me, why not go to them instead?”

“Oh, that’s simple, Kabuto.” And suddenly he has risen to his feet, his robe worn so loosely that about half his chest is exposed, leering as he approaches Kabuto. Orochimaru is somewhat shorter than him in this body, and he looks upwards as he slides his hands under the nondescript, long-sleeved dark shirt Kabuto usually throws on for these occasions. The look in his eyes cannot quite be called “mischievous”—it’s not that harmless. There is something calculated in his gaze, something punitive, something just a little cruel. He rakes his nails against Kabuto’s warm skin, and Kabuto cannot help but shudder, especially when Orochimaru leans in to murmur close to his lips, “You’re by far the most fun.”

“You’re repulsive,” Kabuto replies, right before Orochimaru slips a hand into his pants and wraps his fingers around the heat of his growing erection. He groans, and Orochimaru whispers in his ear as he begins stroking him, deft and familiar:

“That’s it, more of that.”

“You’re vile, you’re abhorrent….” But he is moving his hips, even as he speaks with a clenched jaw and means every word of it, grinding into Orochimaru’s intoxicating touch. God help him. He reaches up and twists a hand in Orochimaru’s long hair, pulling back and forcing Orochimaru’s neck back in a slight arch.

Orochimaru breathes out a raspy _yes_ , and as Kabuto leans down to kiss, bite, and suck on the pale skin of his neck, marking it with ease, the pace of Orochimaru’s stroking increases until Kabuto can’t take it anymore. As always, things escalate rapidly: soon they are both panting softly, a kind of frenzy in the air as they kiss, hard and urgent, with no affection. Breathless whispers are exchanged: _You despise me, don’t you, Kabuto_ and _Shut up, just shut up for five seconds_. Hands grab, clothes are torn away. They are so close together now, the heat of their bodies pressing together. Kabuto feels Orochimaru’s long nails graze the sensitive skin of his cock and has to stifle a groan, retaliating by sinking his teeth into a pale shoulder. He breathes in the familiar, multilayered scent of Orochimaru’s skin—acrid iodine beneath sandalwood oil beneath sweat.

It’s like he never left. He knows that’s not a good thing. But the meaning of “good” always seems so murky and amorphous when it’s Orochimaru breathing out his name, Orochimaru’s tongue wrapping itself around his cock, Orochimaru taking him into his mouth, Orochimaru looking up at him with the fixed, triumphant stare of some ancient and predatory creature. An old god, of malicious intent.

Kabuto is going to be “home” very late. 

* * *

 

It’s a little past five when Kabuto slips quietly through the orphanage’s back door, the dew still drying on the grass outside as the sun’s first rays peer in through the windows. He’s sure that he looks terrible after traveling on foot all night. A quick glance in the hallway mirror as he passes by confirms it: his dark circles look as though he smeared them on with coal.

He pauses for a moment, taking in the rest of his reflection, at once so familiar and so alien. Gone are the scales of a year and a half ago, the gold eyes, the markings. He’s had to cut his hair a few times since finally being released from captivity six months prior. He prefers the shorter look over the ponytail; it seems to signify more of a change, although these days he wonders if he shouldn’t just grow it out again. Since he’s already in the business of picking up old habits.

He sighs, turning to head upstairs and change into his robes before anyone else can wake up and spot him. And then he halts, his hand going still on the railing.

Urushi is standing at the top of the stairs, still in his pajamas, looking judgmental.

Kabuto does not move.

“Kabuto,” Urushi greets.

“Urushi.” A beat. “You’re up early.”

“Had to take a leak.” Kabuto is not sure he buys that, although the sleepy hoarseness in Urushi’s voice sounds authentic. He is squinting slightly at Kabuto as though he is the one who needs glasses, and his dark hair—usually covered by his cap—sticks up in the back. “Out for another morning walk?” he asks.

“Yes.” Kabuto’s voice falls flat even to his own ears. “Had some trouble sleeping.”

“Again,” clarifies Urushi.

“Yes.”

For a moment, Urushi just stares at him. As he turns to walk back to his bedroom down the short hallway, he says through a yawn, “Weird that you always put on a different set of clothes for these early-morning walks.” He shakes his head, adding right before he slides the door shut, “‘World-class spy.’” Kabuto flinches as the door closes with a soft _thwack_. 

* * *

 

It’s another idyllic day in Konoha, all clear blue skies, zelkova leaves carried on light breezes, the chirping of sparrows and wagtails. In April, the village is at its peak, the cherry blossoms in bloom and the wildlife flourishing. Of course, Kabuto can only see so much from the orphanage’s back porch, where he sits finishing his tea as breakfast wraps up inside. He has not made a habit of walking the three or four miles to Konoha very often. It tends to get him spit on when he’s trying to do something as innocuous as picking up groceries. The last time it happened was a few months ago. After having _evil snake motherfucker_ hissed at him and wiping spittle from his lenses, he went home, shoved the bag full of packaged salmon at a stunned Urushi, and told him, _I’m not doing this again until they at least come up with something more clever_.

Kabuto leans back in his chair on the porch, sighing at the tension knotted in his shoulders. He tries rolling them back once or twice, knowing it won’t do any good. Twenty-six years old and sometimes he feels closer to Orochimaru’s fifty-six than Orochimaru himself probably does. _You shouldn’t compare yourself to him_ , chimes in a voice in his head that he recognizes as Itachi’s. He’s gotten better at ignoring it in recent months, particularly after the nightmare that was certain stretches of time in prison, but it still likes to rear its ugly head from time to time.

“Can you wait until I’ve finished my tea to start up,” he says under his breath, taking a sip as he looks out at the forest behind the orphanage. All the heavy foliage rippling in the wind. The hares darting about. He concentrates on them as best he can, just to remind himself that he is here. The grounding tactic tends to work better when he’s not exhausted, however, and Itachi persists.

_This isn’t good for you, you know. You’re never going to become more yourself this way._

“Yes, and listening to you would be good for me, right? That’s what you’re suggesting?”

_It’s not that I want you to depend on me._

“No? Then what are you still doing making yourself at home in my head?”

 _I’m just trying to help_.

“Then start paying rent. We could use the additional income.”

 _I’m not the enemy, Kabuto_.

“Oh, go to hell,” he mutters, lifting his cup to his lips again.

“Kabuto?” Urushi’s bewildered voice sounds from behind him.

 _Damn it_ , Kabuto thinks, turning to where Urushi stands in the doorway. Behind him, there is the usual chaos and noise of Keiri and Kanpu trying to corral the children from breakfast to their morning lessons—clattering kitchenware, scraping furniture, laughter, shouts. Urushi is frowning, looking mildly disconcerted. “That wasn’t directed at you,” Kabuto says, realizing too late what little comfort that must be.

Probably for both of their sakes, Urushi does not reply, instead looking out at the forest behind them. Kabuto examines his profile—the strong jawline, the prominent and slightly red nose, the scruff of his chin. His are sturdy features, not at all like Kabuto’s. Like his kindness, they make it hard for Kabuto to feel as though they could ever really be family. Not that he would ever say that out loud. Finally, after a long silence, Urushi says with a glance his way, “You know, they’re still asking a lot of questions about you.”

Kabuto’s gaze drops from Urushi’s face and towards a fixed point on the nearby grass. “Is that so.”

“Yeah. More of the same, mostly. Asking where you came from, why you’re by yourself so much of the time, what you’re like. Some of them seem to think you don’t like them.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that. “I don’t _dis_ like them.” When he sees Urushi giving him an exasperated look, he adds defensively, “I don’t have a strong opinion. I leave them alone, they leave me alone. It’s a perfect arrangement.”

“Kabuto, I just—” Pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, Urushi asks, “Look, I know I’ve asked this before, but just for my own edification: when you said you wanted to come back to the _orphan_ age, did you somehow forget there would be _orphans_ here?”

“I’m not known for the brilliance of my life decisions, Urushi. You’re not the first one to make that abundantly clear.”

Urushi sighs, pulling off his cap to run a hand through his hair. A habit when he’s frustrated, Kabuto has noticed. “It’s just—you act like you’ve never been around a kid in your life, bro. You eat most of your meals alone, you spend almost every day doing chores or balancing the budget…some of the kids only see you when they hurt themselves and you come out of your cave to heal them.”

Voice dry, Kabuto retorts, “Yes, how horrible, I make sure they eat and have clean facilities and don’t bleed to death.”

“Kabuto, the other day Midori asked you if you wanted to be her new best friend. Do you want me to remind me what you told her?”

Kabuto grimaces slightly. “I don’t think we need to dwell on the details of—”

“‘ _No thank you_.’ You said _no thank you_ to a four-year-old asking if you would be her friend. Do you not see how that might not have been the optimal response?”

“Well, what was I _supposed_ to say? She might have actually taken me up on the offer.”

“Would that really have been the worst thing in the world?”

Losing his temper for just a moment, Kabuto snaps, “I don’t know, Urushi, would _you_ have told her that her parents are probably dead because of her _new best friend_ , or would that have fallen to me?” Instantly he regrets his words, which hang heavily in the air, the sudden silence punctuated only by the birds and the distant sound of the children settling in for their lessons. As the two of them stare at each other, Kabuto can hear Keiri raising her voice from down the hall— _Settle down, everyone, and take out your workbooks_. There is still frustration in Urushi’s dark eyes, but there is also sadness, and the one thing Kabuto can’t stand: worry. He tears his gaze away.

“Look, just say what you really came out here to say so we can be done with it,” he says, breaking the silence.

Out of the corner of his eye, Kabuto sees Urushi shove his hands into his pockets with a sigh. Slowly, he crosses over to the chair next to Kabuto’s, sinking down into it and seeming to choose his next words carefully. “I’m not going to lecture you” is what he says after a long moment. “I just don’t think it’s a smart move. And I think you agree with me.”

Kabuto takes a final sip of his tea before answering. “Oh, I do. Wholly.”

“So….” Wrinkling his brow, Urushi asks, “Why? It’s more effort to go and keep doing it than to just…hang back here, you know? And it’s way less risk.”

“Urushi,” Kabuto says, holding his now-empty cup in both hands in his lap. “I really don’t think you _actually_ want me to explain this to you.”

“Try me.”

Kabuto glances at him, and he looks so _earnest_ that Kabuto’s first, terrible instinct is to put that sincerity to the test by telling him how good the sex is. But he suppresses it, shaking his head and looking away again. “It is what it is, Urushi. It’s not your job to talk me out of it.”

“Okay, sure, but it’s just….” He falters briefly.

“Just what?”

“Just don’t—don’t give them anything to use against you. I don’t want you going back there if you don’t have to.”

Kabuto knows that the _there_ Urushi is referring to is the Konoha Torture and Interrogation Force’s headquarters. It’s where he spent the first year after the war in limbo, alternately getting _very_ acquainted with Morino Ibiki’s cronies and waiting for the Council to pass judgment on him. He’s already been summoned back twice in response to perceived security threats, reciting the same tired intel that he’d already given them repeatedly months before. Each time felt more like a test than anything else, but he still spent a week or so afterwards yelling out in his sleep, having to be shaken awake by an unnerved Urushi. Always drenched in a cold sweat, always convinced he was back in the holding cell he’d come to memorize—every ominous dried stain on the floor, every nick in the concrete wall. He’d been captured and detained before, several times, but never for a year. Never after starting a war and strolling foolishly past the enemy’s front gate as though his admonishment would be a mere slap on the wrist.

“I’m not exactly keen on going back there myself,” he says shortly. “I know what I’m doing. He has his little chaperone—if Yamato-san thought we were plotting something, he would have reported it already.”

“Are you sure?”

Kabuto hesitates. He wants to say, _No, of course I’m not sure, you imbecile. I’m nothing but insurance, and everything I have right now is just charity. It can all be taken away at any given moment, so why shouldn’t I at least get laid while it lasts?_ But on some level, he knows that Urushi knows all this—he just wants Kabuto to read from the script. So instead he says, “Yes. I’m sure.”

Urushi nods, and for a moment, it looks as though he might say something else, but instead he just stands up and walks back over to the door. “Don’t forget, that girl is coming back over later,” he throws over his shoulder on his way inside.

Ah. He’d almost forgotten. “Right,” he replies, hoping he’s concealing his dread effectively. “Thank you, Urushi.”

“Don’t mention it.” And Urushi smiles at him, just a little, and Kabuto hates how sincere the expression is. How quietly hopeful. And just like that he is gone, leaving Kabuto alone with his thoughts for a little while longer.

Well, not entirely alone. A stray cat he’s often seen prowling about the yard peers its head over the edge of the porch, then leaps up with a soft _thud_ and a meow. Kabuto watches it pad closer, a short-haired mixed breed with white and brown fur and a tiny hole in its left ear. It’s seemed to overcome its skittishness in the past month or so, at least where Kabuto is concerned. The children are fond of trying to pull its tail when they spot it, and Keiri has shooed it away with a broom on more than one occasion. Kabuto, on the other hand, leaves it alone much as he leaves everyone alone. In exchange, the cat seems to abide his company—as it does now, perching a few feet from him and watching the birds. Its tail swings slowly from side to side, and Kabuto observes this for a while before looking back out at all the greenery that surrounds him.

It’s another idyllic day in Konoha.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is............the big one.
> 
> I've gotten several false starts on this stupidly ambitious fic over the years since before the Naruto manga even ended bc I was so thoroughly bewildered and frustrated by Kabuto's character "resolution." while I liked the idea of Kabuto parting ways with Orochimaru, I found the execution........sloppy/rushed at best, and was NOT happy when I saw what a fucking herb he'd been turned into in B*ruto. so this is my somewhat convoluted attempt to remedy all that mess and instead pose some of the questions Kishimoto lacked the narrative capacity to, such as: what if Izanami wasn't just literal brainwashing? how the fuck did Kabuto "kicks defenseless twelve-year-olds into the dirt while disparaging their life philosophies" Yakushi adjust to being in charge of orphans, and why was everyone so cool with that? what the fuck is good with Kabuto's brother? what was the nature of Kabuto and Orochimaru's relationship after their "breakup," and why was it DEFINITELY angry and horny? etc.
> 
> I can't say for certain that I know where this fic is going to end up - I have a ridiculous amount of it written so far since I've been working on it since winter of this past year, but the end is still nowhere in sight. (my EXTREMELY TENTATIVE update schedule is once or twice a month for the first ten chapters and ??? after that, but I have a lot of editing to do, so it will probably be inconsistent.) all I know is that a lot of it will........probably not be compliant with what ends up happening in B*ruto, but I really like Log and Mitsuki, so at least some of it will.
> 
> many, MANY thanks to Raz, who volunteered to be my beta reader months ago with zero prompting and only the tiniest glimpse of what I had to work with. I absolutely 1 billion percent would not have gotten so far in this project without your unflagging enthusiasm and enabling - thanks for being such an invaluable source of inspiration and insight, which is the name I've decided to give to our incoherent screeching at each other. this fic, such as it is, wouldn't exist without you and our many insufferable inside jokes.
> 
> thanks as well to some of my early readers - McFly, for helping accelerate my descent into Kabuto hell back in early 2018, and of course, always, to Alex, for supporting my writing so much you grit your teeth and read many thousands of words about a character you can't stand. (which. fair.) and thank you as ever to my friends and mutuals who have endured all this nonsense for the past year and will have to continue to endure it until I've finished the project or worn myself out.
> 
> last bit: while this fic has its imperfections, which I am ACUTELY aware of (probably more so than anyone else), I am not looking for critique from people I haven't specifically sought it out from. I've been invested in Kabuto for an embarrassing duration of time, which is to say "longer than five seconds." as such, there is a lot of me and my philosophies in this fic - on trauma, on relationships, on family, on accountability and making amends and getting better - and if I had the time/unfettered access to wealth, polishing this garbage would be my full-time job. however, since it's not, I'm posting mostly for myself and anyone else whose characters and themes it might reach. if that's not you, that's fine, but uhhhhhhhhhhh keep it to yourself, I guess? tl;dr: my answer to "op do you take constructive criticism" is "I absolutely fucking do not"
> 
> title is from the poem "Frida Kahlo to Mary McConnell" aka the inspiration for "Various Storms and Saints," the Florence song that helped get this shit off the ground!


	2. Ozymandias

It’s another bleak day in Oto.

Orochimaru does not rise from bed until past noon, his limbs and back still somewhat sore from last night’s rendezvous at the inn. The last round was probably a mistake; Kabuto seems to have developed a penchant for hair-pulling and even rougher sex generally in the months since they released him from prison. As Orochimaru crosses from bed to the room’s affixed bathroom, he wonders idly about this new aggression on Kabuto’s part—whether it’s solely a product of the fractured relationship between them, or if it also has something to do with what they did to him during that long year. He hasn’t asked. He does not intend to. Kabuto never did handle any frank discussion of his behavior very well. If there’s anything Orochimaru is sure of, it’s that that much hasn’t changed.

Besides, it’s not as though he cares. There is a reason they don’t do much talking during these trysts.

He turns on the light in the bathroom and considers his reflection in the mirror above the sink, brushing some hair away from his eyes. There are some reddish-purple smudges on his neck where thousands of tiny capillaries have burst—he always did bruise easily. He runs his fingers lightly across the surface of the skin, smirking a little. _Hungry, weren’t you._

The rest of him is much the same as always, which in his case means the same as in recent months. Long dark hair, pale and slender limbs, cheekbones and clavicles sharp and pronounced. Eyes with slitted pupils and golden irises that peer from beneath his lids like a predator’s from a thicket. Shining. Perceptive. Voracious. He loosens his robe slightly, allows it to fall down his shoulders, and admires his own transient form. Admires both the form itself and its transience. The expanse of his chest, the slope of his angular hips. Marvelous.

He pulls his robe back up and starts getting ready for the day, no matter that he got a late start. He has work to do.

A half hour later, he emerges from his room like a lioness leaving her den to sun herself, dressed in his usual attire. He decides, before heading to the lab, that he would like some tea. He walks down the stone hallway to the small kitchenette where he keeps a water boiler, some tea leaves, and a few quick meals for nights when he is working late—packets of instant noodles, a few cartons of eggs, and so on. It has been well over a year now, and he is still occasionally struck by the strangeness of doing these little things for himself. Getting his own morning tea, remembering to eat after long stretches. He detests that strangeness; it makes him feel childlike in a most unpleasant way.

Even now, standing in the kitchenette and watching the water boil, he feels the absence of something in the silence punctuated only by the soft bubbling. He would like to think out loud. It’s not as though he doesn’t enjoy the sound of his own thoughts. And yet he is so conscious of the room’s emptiness. Of the fact that if he were to start speaking, there would be no one to chime in with words of assent, measured disagreement, subtle jabs masquerading as light remarks, or shrewd observations.

As the water comes to a boil, he yanks the cord from the wall, suddenly irritated. Pouring the water over the infuser that he’s filled with oolong, he can’t help but think—not for the first time—whether one of his subordinates isn’t due for some kind of informal promotion. But the thought brings a wry smile to his lips. No, none of them would do: Karin is too abrasive and headstrong, Jūgo is practically mute on his good days and murderous on his bad ones, and Suigetsu, bless him, scarcely has two brain cells to rub together. And they’re all that’s left from the old days. He would not trust anyone else to serve as his right hand.

Pausing to let the tea steep, he considers the odd feeling in his chest, so similar to when they first returned to this hideout—tamer now, but still as fresh as though it was just yesterday.

_“Yeah, well…this is it.”_

_“Yes, Suigetsu, thank you,” he says with a certain frostiness, if only because his blood feels so cold in his veins all at once. The eastern hideout has been completely abandoned, and as he makes his way down the hallway, footsteps echoing, he is reminded vividly of the inside of a crypt. Down the hall, he sees a pile of rubble where the wall caved in, and as he walks over and climbs within, he barely registers Suigetsu stammering behind him._

_“Y-yeah, about the wall, Orochimaru-sama, it was Jūgo’s fault, y’know, he went all berserk again and started throwing punches, but I was able to find the scroll with all the information about all the Hokage and the Reaper Death Seal, so really it all worked out in the end thanks to me—”_

_“Suigetsu, shut the fuck up,” Karin snaps. “No one wants to hear your blathering right now.”_

_“You’re just pissy because Sasuke went back to Konoha.”_

_“_ Please. _You were the one moping half of the way here over that, not me.”_

 _“Wha—I was not_ mopin _g!”_

_“‘I can’t believe Sasuke is going back to Konoha after all we did for him! I busted my ass getting him that scroll and risked my life helping bring the Hokage back, and this is the thanks I get’….”_

_“Stop it, both of you,” Jūgo says sternly._

_“Oi, it’s not my fault Karin won’t get off my ass!”_

_Orochimaru barely pays attention as the trio goes on bickering. It’s difficult for him to even hear them over the blood pounding in his ears as he sees the cobwebs ornamenting his ransacked study. Absently, he reaches out to touch one of the jars sitting atop the desk, where he has preserved a small python, floating in an ethanol solution. When he pulls away from the glass, there is a thin film of dust and grime on his fingertips. He stares at his own hand for a moment, wondering at the passage of time. Wondering at what has happened to the other hideouts, although he is sure he already knows the answer, based on the fragments he heard from within Anko._

_After a minute or so of this, the others seem to take note of his silence, and fall into an uncomfortable one of their own. He hears footsteps approach him, quietly._

_“Orochimaru-sama,” Karin says._

_He rubs his fingers together to dispel the dust, watching it disintegrate and fall. “Remind me, Karin,” he says without facing her. “It’s been about a year, correct?”_

_She seems to hesitate. “Yes, Orochimaru-sama.”_

_“And the other hideouts, they’re….” This time, she definitely hesitates. “Karin.”_

_He hears her take a deep breath, but to her credit, when she answers, her voice is steady and assured. “I’m afraid so. I did what I could to hold down the fort at the southern hideout, but it was no use. There was a mass exodus.”_

_“And the experiments at each hideout? The notes, the findings, the data?”_

_“I….” Here she falters. “I’m not sure. I think—” She cuts off abruptly._

_“Yes?” He turns to face her._

_Meeting his gaze uncertainly, Karin licks her lips. “Well…I think the only one who would know about that would be….”_

_Of course. Kabuto. She doesn’t need to say his name; his absence is felt in the room then, stark and imposing. Orochimaru finds his lips curling back in a snarl—probably flashing some fang, judging by the way Suigetsu’s eyes widen as he takes one nervous step backwards into Jūgo. His blood has suddenly gone from icy to seething as he processes, for the first time since the chaos of the war, just what Kabuto’s recklessness might have cost him. No, “recklessness” isn’t the right word. His meltdown, his collapse, his whatever-that-was. The short-sighted, melodramatic, needy, directionless, pathetic…._

_“Orochimaru-sama?” Karin’s voice snaps him out of it, if only temporarily._

_He forces his anger down to a simmer, pausing for a moment before releasing a low, bitter chuckle. “No matter,” he says. “We’ll retrieve what there is to be retrieved, fill in whatever gaps we can, and go forward from there.”_

_“Uh, no offense, Orochimaru-sama,” Suigetsu pipes up, “but how are we supposed to ‘fill in the gaps’? Some of us weren’t exactly on the experimenting side of things, way back in the_ good old days _.”_

_“Speak for yourself,” Karin scoffs, one hand on her hip._

_“Okay, sure, genius, but you’re no Kabuto.” When Karin shoots him a warning look, he becomes indignant. “What? I’m just stating the facts. Kabuto was a creepy jerk, but he still knew more about this stuff than any of us. Probably because he spent all day poking and prodding the rest of us in the labs.”_

_“Suigetsu, that’s not helpful,” Jūgo says, looking down at him with a frown._

_Looking up at Jūgo, back at Karin, and over at a silent Orochimaru, Suigetsu exclaims in frustration, “I don’t get it! Why am I the only one who’s actually saying any of this stuff? You’ve all been so_ weird _about it. Orochimaru-sama, what exactly_ happened _between you guys?”_

 _“_ Suigetsu _,” Karin hisses._

_“What? He’s the one who told us to go wait somewhere else while they talked! Why shouldn’t we get any of the details? If we’re gonna be cleaning up after Kabuto’s mess, then we deserve to know why he left!”_

_“Kabuto left because he decided to suddenly take issue with the work he did here,” Orochimaru interjects curtly, watching Suigetsu’s mouth snap shut like window blinds. “You can thank Uchiha Itachi for his infernal brainwashing jutsu. Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. He’s gone, and we will have to make do.”_

_For a moment, Suigetsu looks flabbergasted, and then he speaks in a hushed tone. “Woah, so you guys, like,_ actually _broke up this time? For real?”_

 _Orochimaru shifts his gaze over to Karin, who nods, already on it. She slides an arm around Suigetsu’s neck, yanks him towards her in a headlock, and delivers a swift punch to the side of his head, which immediately dissolves into water. “Do you_ ever _know when to shut the fuck up?” she shouts as Orochimaru drifts silently from the room, allowing the ensuing argument to recede in volume as he walks down the hall._

 _So this is what it’s come to. His makeshift kingdom, lying in ruins—devoid of inhabitants, the wind whistling through so many empty rooms, taking his life’s work with it. In this moment, he stands face-to-face with the harsh truth, and he finds himself eerily calm as he confronts it: if Kabuto had stood firm, if he had kept his grip and elected to hold down the fort, so much could have been saved. He could have done it, Orochimaru has no doubt of that. That was always something that thrilled him as much as it occasionally unsettled him: until very recently, Kabuto has never just_ not been able _to do something. He could have stopped them all from running, even if it meant imprisoning everyone he could and killing the rest. He could have kept their enemies at bay, he could have kept the lights on and operations running more or less smoothly, he could have—might have—eventually figured out a way to bring Orochimaru back himself. And yet. And yet._

 _It’s Kabuto’s own fault, that’s what he keeps telling himself as he fumes over the betrayal. No one_ told _him to be so obsessive, to melt down his insides and pour them into an Orochimaru-shaped cast. No one told him to get so dependent, to let his perspective become so utterly warped that he couldn’t see beyond Orochimaru’s shadow. Certainly no one told him to start a_ war _, to make playthings out of corpses and fill his own head with semi-psychotic delusions of grandeur. Orochimaru knows these things, and yet there is still a strange, unpleasant feeling in his chest and a sour taste in his mouth._

 _The fact is that in this moment, he would like to be told to go get some rest—to be told,_ Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything _and wake up to everything back in place, his house back in order, a hot meal at his bedside, and Kabuto’s lips trailing up the side of his calf. No, it’s not that he would_ like _these things. He is entitled to them. They should be his, and instead he has to start over, to rebuild it all from scratch without the help of the one person who could have kept it all from tumbling down in the first place. The sheer injustice of it is almost too great to bear._

_In this moment, he desperately hopes that over in Konoha, they are making Kabuto pay. He hopes they are doing the job for him, and in fact, he’s sure they must be. With this gratifying thought in mind, he goes to inspect the rest of the hideout and collect whatever debris he can find._

That was a year and a half ago. He spent every day in that year that followed searching every hideout for specimens, research notes, stragglers, journals, prisoners, artifacts, scrolls, old clothes and trinkets, and anything else worth keeping. Some was still there, untouched and intact. Much of it was not. Absconded with by escapees more vindictive than they were desperate to flee, stolen by Konoha shinobi conducting raids, pilfered by miscellaneous thieves, destroyed as casualties of war—he found that in some cases, entire hideouts had been ravaged by fires, explosions, or floods. What a difference the year he’d been “dead” made, at least with no one to protect his life’s work.

Of course, he had taken great precautions with the findings and knowledge that were most valuable. He was not, is not, a fool. And a good thing too, for many of those experiments can no longer be replicated—not anymore, not with Konoha breathing down his neck. Some knowledge, once lost, will remain lost for quite some time. He does not think “forever.” Perhaps for as long as Konoha exists and remembers its grievances against him, and after that…who knows?

Still. Orochimaru has never been known for his patience.

He is just picking up his tea when he hears footsteps hurrying down the hall, and a moment later Karin appears in the doorway, huffing. “ _There_ you are.”

“Good morning, Karin. You were looking for me?”

She answers with a soft “tch” sound, looking agitated. It’s been unseasonably warm for April in the Land of Sound, and she is wearing the black dress Orochimaru has caught Suigetsu ogling her in more than once. “It’s almost one in the afternoon, you know. I had to check up on those samples myself.”

“My sincerest apologies. If it’s too much responsibility for you, I can of course find someone else to assist me with the experiment,” he says calmly, taking a sip of the oolong while it’s still hot.

Predictably, she backpedals, stammering. “N-no, that’s not it—I was wondering where you were, that’s all.”

“I had something to take care of.”

She arches a sharp crimson brow. “Uh-huh,” she says. “Did this _something_ happen to be a former war criminal with stupid glasses?”

“Karin, was there something specific that you were looking for me for?”

She rolls her eyes, and if she were anyone else, she would be a splatter on the wall in an instant. As it is, Orochimaru lets it slide as she says grumpily, “As a matter of fact, yes. It might interest you to know, Orochimaru-sama, that we had a _visitor_ early this morning. From Konoha.”

“Really?” This catches his interest. “Anyone we know?”

“None of us recognized him, but you might know him. Sunglasses, weird tattoo on his face. He was a real pain in the ass to restrain. Threatened Jūgo and Suigetsu with all these gross bugs.” She grimaces at the memory, making a quiet “eugh” sound.

Ah. Now that _is_ interesting. “How about that,” he says with a thoughtful hum.

“You know him?”

Orochimaru smiles. “An old work acquaintance. You all managed to restrain him?”

Karin nods. “Took some doing, but frankly, I don’t think he was resisting too much. He just seemed annoyed. Kept talking about how there’s no need, he came here as a potential ally, blah-blah-blah. I told him that if all of that was true, then he shouldn’t have any problem waiting patiently for you to meet with him.”

“Good girl.” He watches her do a poor job of repressing a smile. “Where do you have him now?”

She inclines her head down the hallway. “I’ll take you to him now. Suigetsu is probably still trying to ‘interrogate’ him.”

* * *

Minutes later, they arrive at one of the uninhabited, mostly empty rooms in the opposite wing of the hideout, where Karin’s prediction comes true. The only furniture in the candlelit room is a chair, where their visitor sits with his hands bound behind his back in chakra-inhibiting cuffs. He is dressed in dark clothes, and—per Karin’s description—wears sunglasses and has a small, geometric, indigo-colored marking on the left side of his face. His expression is blank, sunglasses notwithstanding, as Suigetsu extends an arm, poking the side of his captive’s head with his index finger. Jūgo stands back against the far wall, arms crossed, looking weary.

“Come on, out with it!” Suigetsu demands, jabbing some more. “Tell me what your business is with Orochimaru-sama, or I’ll start using my Suiton.”

“Suigetsu, give it a rest,” Jūgo says.

With a “tch” sound, Suigetsu looks as though he might try again, but then he seems to take notice of Orochimaru and Karin standing in the doorway. He turns to them, unabashed. “Oh, hi, Orochimaru-sama. I was just interrogating the trespasser.”

“Shut up, Suigetsu,” Karin retorts. “All you were doing was bothering him more.”

“Hey! I was _this_ close to getting through to him, but Jūgo told me I wasn’t allowed to actually hurt him.”

“Because he’s not a fucking prisoner, you idiot. I just had you two restrain him as a precaution.”

“Well _excuse_ the hell out of me for forgetting where we draw the line when it comes to prisoners now!”

Ignoring them, Orochimaru turns his attention to the subject of the argument, cordial. “How nice to see you, Tatsuma-san,” he greets. “It’s been a while.”

Straight-faced as ever, Aburame Tatsuma responds in his usual monotone, “Bit of an odd welcome, Orochimaru-san.”

“Yes, apologies for him. He gets overexcited sometimes.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

“He’s a very capable fighter,” Orochimaru explains. Suigetsu beams.

“I see.”

“To what do I owe the pleasure after such a long time? It’s been a number of years, hasn’t it?”

“Yes. Years since _you_ defected.”

Orochimaru waves a hand. “Details.”

“Orochimaru-sama, where do you know this guy from?” Suigetsu interjects.

Tatsuma turns his head slightly—Orochimaru assumes that he is glancing pointedly behind his dark lenses. “I was hoping that I might speak to you in private.”

“Oi, anything you can say in front of Orochimaru-sama, you can say in front of us!” Suigetsu says confidently.

Tatsuma turns back to face Orochimaru more directly. “Where did you _find_ this one, exactly?”

“Suigetsu,” Orochimaru says, “if you and Jūgo could kindly assist go and Karin with her list of tasks for the day.”

Suigetsu blinks. “Aw, come on!” Jūgo seems impassive.

Karin grumbles in displeasure. “I don’t _want_ their help. They’d just mess things up.”

“Delegate some grunt work to them, then.”

She shrugs but looks appeased, gesturing out the door to the other two. “Come on, morons, you can help me move some of those specimens from the Kusagakure hideout to their new storage space.”

Jūgo acquiesces quietly, walking out as Suigetsu trails behind him, whining. “Man, we never get to do anything _fun_ anymore….” Soon the three of them are gone, their voices receding down the hall.

Orochimaru closes the door after them, the silence in the room particularly acute with Suigetsu removed. “They’re each very skilled in their own right,” he says.

“I believe you. Any chance you could remove the cuffs, now that you know it’s me?”

“You mean now that I know you don’t pose a threat to me?” Orochimaru chuckles, but he snaps his fingers, and the shackles fall from Tatsuma’s wrists to the floor. “As you wish.”

Standing and rubbing at his wrists, Tatsuma says flatly, “I meant now that you know I’m trustworthy.”

“I know nothing of the sort. You’re a former Root operative who was so loyal to Danzō that he had no qualms about threatening to rob a struggling orphanage, among other things. Why should you hesitate to take advantage of my hospitality?”

“I could have taken out all three of them at any time, you know. Chakra inhibition doesn’t have much of an effect on my clan’s kekkei genkai.”

“Oh, I believe you could have tried, but I wouldn’t be so cocky, Tatsuma-san. Those three shouldn’t be underestimated.”

Tatsuma does not seem impressed or amused. “Be that as it may, I’m here to deliver a proposition to you.”

“A proposition, hm? And why would Konoha send you, of all people?”

“Konoha didn’t send me. Root did.”

Orochimaru feels a flicker of curiosity mixed with consternation. “Is that so? I was under the impression that Root disbanded years ago. And good riddance, I might add.”

“It did. But there has been a recent underground movement to bring together former operatives who still empathize with Danzō-sama’s ideals. We feel that the village is headed in the wrong direction and seek to correct its course.”

It’s all Orochimaru can do to keep from scowling—he was not looking to confront one of Danzō’s sympathizers, that militantly nationalistic lot, within an hour of waking up. “Danzō is dead,” he says curtly. “What ideals of that musty old dotard’s could you still be clinging to, precisely?”

Tatsuma is unfazed by Orochimaru’s disdain. “Primarily those involving the security and sovereignty of the village. I trust you’re aware of your former subordinate’s new position within our ranks?”

Orochimaru keeps his expression neutral. “I’d heard that they have him working at the very same orphanage we paid a visit to all those years ago.”

“Yes. Free to travel within the borders of the Land of Fire as he so chooses, without any supervision. Free not only to interact with the next generation of shinobi, but to play an active role in their upbringing.”

Orochimaru can’t help it; he snorts with laughter. “I don’t think any of you need worry about that. I’m sure he barely interacts with them at all, if he can help it.”

Once again, Tatsuma does not so much as crack a smile. His humorlessness, Orochimaru notes, so inherent to his clan as a whole, always did seem to be exacerbated by his Root affiliation. “Regardless, he represents an enormous threat to the village. He bears personal grievances against its institutions, and on top of that, he’s unstable. A ticking time bomb at best. And he’s not the only one. You also heard that the Godaime allowed Uchiha Sasuke to roam free—never mind that he once tried to assassinate the Gokage, succeeded in killing Danzō-sama, and has expressed his desire to eliminate Konoha on many occasions in the past.”

Something seems off to Orochimaru. “How interesting,” he notes, “that you are coming to me with this—me, the one who killed the Sandaime and nearly destroyed Konoha myself seven years ago.”

“I’m aware of the irony,” Tatsuma says. “But our organization has unanimously agreed that you have great potential as an ally. And we believe that you might be interested in what we have to offer you.”

Orochimaru chuckles. “And what is it that _you_ could offer me?”

“If we achieve our goals? The expansion of your pardon to encompass _complete_ freedom—no monitoring of your activities, no Konoha shinobi to track or hunt you down, no punitive measures whatsoever taken against you. The village will turn a blind eye to _whatever_ you decide to do, so long as it does not threaten the village’s own security.”

There is a heavy silence. On the walls, the flames from each candle dance and crackle softly, and Orochimaru wrestles with a strange sense of déjà vu. Funny, he thinks, how things come full circle: just as he infiltrated Root all those years ago, now it returns from the dead to infiltrate his own domain, beseeching him for aid. Still, the situation feels odd for other reasons as well. “It sounds to me as though you are going against the Godaime’s orders,” he says after a long pause. “How did you manage to get past your comrade, Yamato, to come here and try to strike an underhanded deal?”

“Yamato-san believes that I am here on official orders from Tsunade-sama. He knows nothing of our plans. He ceased being Root and embraced the Will of Fire years ago.”

“So you’ve really and truly diverged from the village’s leadership.” He almost finds it amusing. Already, then, the village is regressing back to its usual pattern of internal strife, now that the dust from its most cataclysmic war has finally begun to settle. But he cannot quite find amusement in the conflict—not with Tsunade still at the helm. “What exactly is the nature of your leader’s plot? Who _is_ your leader?”

“Our only head is the will of Danzō-sama. Our ranks are simply trying to execute it as a collective.” Orochimaru is not sure he believes that, but he does not express his doubts. “Our ultimate plan is to resist the changing tide currently sweeping through the village: one that seeks to divert funds from military groups like the Anbu, adopt new foreign policies, and turn Konoha from a village of shinobi into an easy target. It started by granting war criminals like Kabuto and Sasuke clemency, and now there are beginning to be talks of reducing our forces and becoming more lax in the training of young shinobi.”

“And how do you plan to resist all that?”

“We are not radicals. We do not seek destruction for destruction’s sake—in fact, we would prefer to avoid needless violence. Our goal is simply to restore power to the Council and to the Anbu, change the minds of those in power who have chosen to forsake the old ways, and—if necessary—install likeminded individuals in positions of authority. But we are hoping it won’t come to that. With your help, Orochimaru-san, it might not have to.” As he speaks, Tatsuma’s voice remains measured and even; Orochimaru recognizes this as an effort to inspire confidence in a plan he is leaving deliberately ambiguous. “And you _would_ benefit from the new system. There would be no more restrictions imposed on you. You have our guarantee.”

Orochimaru stays quiet for a moment, processing this information. Weighing his options. The thought of cooperating with Root again and involving himself in Konoha’s politics is repellent, to say the least. Whatever lingering fondness he might have for Tsunade, it is not enough to induce him to care about whether Konoha adopts new ways, remains militant, or burns to the ground entirely. And he is especially uninterested in aligning himself with any faction that considers detaining Sasuke, or worse, a top priority. No—tempting as the idea of losing the short leash Konoha has him on is, the whole thing sounds like a headache.

“The restrictions in place now are not so terrible that I’m desperate to rid myself of them,” he finally says. “Besides, my interests now extend far beyond destroying villages and using their displaced inhabitants as my test subjects. I am willing to abide by the conditions that have been offered to me, for now.”

Tatsuma, predictably, does not react, not even with a raising of his eyebrows. “Is this your answer?”

“It is. I’m not interested in keeping Danzō’s will intact the way that you all seem to be.” When Tatsuma does not answer at first, he decides that he has grown bored of this little break from routine, and turns to leave the room. “If that is all, then you may see yourself out the way that you came in. Tell Yamato that you have concluded your ‘official’ business with me, and we can both keep this to ourselves. I am willing to extend you that little courtesy for old times’ sake, Tatsuma-san.”

But then Tatsuma speaks up again: “What if we could offer you a different kind of compensation in exchange for your short term-assistance with one small part of our plan?”

At this point, Orochimaru is close to aggravation. “And what compensation would that be?” he drawls, still walking out.

“How does revenge on Yakushi Kabuto sound?”

Orochimaru stops short. He allows this a moment to sink in. While is standing there with his back to Tatsuma, facing out into the hallway, he remembers something abruptly.

_It is late in a summer afternoon, and they are sitting together outside—a rare occurrence, but Kabuto has insisted that he would benefit from some fresh air in his weakened state. Around them, the cicadas sing, and they sip on chilled mugicha. Orochimaru savors the taste of barley on his tongue. He does not know why or how it comes up, but at one point he asks his right-hand man, “Do you believe in an afterlife, Kabuto?”_

_As expected, Kabuto gives him a look like he just asked whether he believes in fairies or something equally far-fetched. “Did I give you too much pain medication?” is what he asks in response. So typical._

_“No, I’m asking you sincerely whether you believe in life after death.”_

_Kabuto is still looking at him as though this must be some kind of trick. Sitting there in his sleeveless turtleneck, he is perspiring slightly from the humidity, and Orochimaru finds his gaze drawn to the slight sheen of Kabuto’s upper arms. He is tempted to pick up each bead of sweat with his tongue, to taste him. Reflecting on this urge, Orochimaru concedes—if only to himself—that perhaps he_ is _a bit affected by the medication. Everything around him feels so warm, shimmering at the edges. He feels somewhat as though he has been submerged in honey._

 _Eventually, however, Kabuto_ does _answer, though it is with that wry smile of his. “No, I don’t think so,” he says. “I spent those three years with those who did, but it never particularly resonated with me. It all seems like so much vanity and wishful thinking. It doesn’t make any sense.”_

_“Things that don’t make sense trouble you, Kabuto?” He realizes he is saying Kabuto’s name even more than usual. As though it might coax the medical-nin into revealing himself to him more fully._

_But Kabuto only shrugs, his expression withholding. “I suppose,” he says noncommittally, taking a sip of his drink. Orochimaru watches the movement of his throat as he swallows the tea. The way his gaze seems far away, distracted, fixed on something that Orochimaru cannot see._

_He reaches forward and curls his fingers into the back of Kabuto’s hair, at the base of his ponytail, and pulls him closer. Kabuto barely flinches or looks surprised, turning his head and yielding right away when Orochimaru kisses him deeply. Orochimaru loses himself for a moment in the tactile sensations of Kabuto’s mouth, the heat of it, the taste of barley, the lingering moisture on his lips. Everything around him and between them so warm. He kisses Kabuto lazily, almost lethargically, moments seeming to stretch into hours. Right now, under the influence of opiates and the summer afternoon, he might almost convince himself that he loves the young man, or vice versa. Almost._

_After some time of this, Kabuto murmurs, “And you?”_

_“Me?”_

_Kabuto pulls back just slightly, and Orochimaru inspects his gaze closely, but it reveals nothing but a calculated curiosity. “What do you believe, Orochimaru?” he asks; Orochimaru notes the strategic dropping of the honorific. He smiles a little despite himself. No, Kabuto does not love him: his question is one asked to gain leverage, not one that stems from any genuine desire to know him._

_And so he merely answers, “It’s not anything that I need to concern myself with, Kabuto,” and he watches Kabuto’s eyes from up close. He might be imagining it—indulging in some wishful thinking of his own—but he thinks he sees a trace of disappointment. It is gone in an instant as Kabuto masks his expression with a smirk, and then they come together again._

Standing in the doorway, Orochimaru asks Tatsuma without facing him, “Do you think my desires so petty, Tatsuma-san? So juvenile?”

“Orochimaru-san….”

But he feels the corners of his mouth turning upwards in a dark grin as he turns around again. Tatsuma, for the first time, appears surprised, faltering and taking one half-step back. His interest finally piqued, Orochimaru asks, “What did you have in mind?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> would y'all believe this is not even the longest chapter I have drafted? appalling!
> 
> sorry for the length of this one - in the future I'm probably going to try and divvy up longer chapters into multiple updates, but I liked how this one read as a single chapter, so it got to stay intact.
> 
> I had a lot of fun with Orochimaru's pov here despite being rly nervous about it going in, so thanks as always to Raz (my unpaid character consultant) for validating me. I also had a lot of fun with Suigetsu, which..........shows, I think. I love one boy
> 
> thank you so much to everyone who left kudos and comments on chapt 1!!! I'm slowly getting around to replying to everyone's comments, but the positive response has been incredibly motivating. I hope to keep the momentum going and post chapt 3 within the next couple of weeks once I've trimmed it down a bit. as always, comments are more than welcomed!!
> 
> side note: the title of chapt 1 was a VERY vague reference to "Tallahassee" by The Mountain Goats - the eponymous album was a huge inspiration for setting the tone of this fic. and ofc this title is a nod to the Percy Shelley poem. or the Breaking Bad episode. either works tbh


	3. for you this place is shame

Sakura does not look pleased.

Sitting across from Kabuto and Urushi at a table in the orphanage’s dining hall, she spreads out the contents of several files she has brought with her, her movements rigid and precise. She avoids eye contact with either one of them, sitting with her back straight as the clock ticks on the wall overhead. It is the only sound in the otherwise empty room. In the late afternoon, the children usually go play outside when the weather is nice, and today is no exception.

Twiddling his thumbs next to Kabuto, Urushi begins whistling softly as they wait for her to organize her papers—spreadsheets and lists and bureaucratic forms. Kabuto, in the meantime, takes in the sight of Sakura as she keeps her head down, gaze concentrated on her task. Freshly nineteen—the age he was when he first met her, he thinks idly—she has a quiet self-assurance about her now that commands respect, her green eyes sharp and focused. Hers is a demeanor that befits the diamond-shaped seal on her forehead, which she displays proudly, her long hair pulled back by her headband. Kabuto, while generally exasperated by at least fifty percent of Team Seven, can’t help but confess to a strange appreciation for Sakura—her intellect, her medical prowess, and her common sense. He likes when a woman has a good head on her shoulders. Unfortunate, then, that she despises him.

Urushi makes another valiant effort to break the ice. “So how’s the Godaime doing, Sakura-san?”

“Fine,” Sakura says, not looking up as she continues dividing all her papers into neat little stacks in front of her. “She’s finally been able to meet with me about funding options for this project, now that most of the rebuilding is done.” She picks up one of the stacks and straightens it out atop the table’s surface, with a deliberate _tap-tap-tap_. “Not to mention all the burials, funeral services, and reorganization of our ranks.”

“Sounds inconvenient,” Kabuto says. She shoots him a glare that could probably kill ten lesser men, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees Urushi glance up at the ceiling as if hoping some higher power will come down and smite him.

“Remind me why I have to meet with _both_ of you?” she asks, her tone acidic. Her gaze remains fixed on Kabuto, though they all know she is speaking to Urushi. Never during her past handful of visits has she addressed Kabuto directly unless absolutely necessary.

“He, uh, does the numbers,” Urushi mumbles.

“We can’t outsource that service?”

“He’s the most familiar with the expenses. Also, the Hokage made it a condition of his release that he actually, you know, contribute to the institution in some meaningful way.” It isn’t the first time that they’ve spoken about him as though he wasn’t present. Urushi, as always, sounds apologetic.

“So his ‘meaningful contribution’ is sitting here making wisecracks about all the damage he caused that _I’m_ trying to redress?”

“He wants to help redress them, too.”

“He can speak for himself.” And she fixes her gaze on him pointedly.

Seeing Urushi also staring at him, pleading wordlessly, Kabuto recites, “Yes. I would like to help. Please accept my apologies, Sakura-san.”

“Keep them,” she says curtly, turning back to her paperwork.

“What’s, uh, all this, then?” Urushi asks, clearly straining to move past the exchange.

Sakura brushes some hair away from her face, sighing. “Well, as you can imagine, there’s been a lot of debate about where exactly the Hokage’s administration should be allocating resources at the moment—everyone wants a piece of the pie, you know. So right now our top priority is securing funding, and that starts with writing up a more detailed proposal. Not just the broad overview I gave them months ago.”

Kabuto sees Urushi frown. “No offense,” he says, “but that’s an awful lot of steps to make you take for something so time-sensitive. I mean, a lot of these kids, they’ve been needing treatment for a long time.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” she replies. “But the Council likes to drag its feet, and on top of that, they’re stingy. And old-fashioned, too. You know: ‘what’s all this about therapy, it’s all pseudo-science, back in our day children weren’t so fragile and coddled, this is a waste of precious resources,’ blah-blah-blah.”

“Oh, sure.” Bitterness creeps its way into Urushi’s voice. “Why actually spend money helping kids when you can just ignore them or turn them into soldiers, right?”

Sakura responds with a small, ironic smile. “Right.” When the two of them make eye contact, Kabuto wishes more than anything that he could just leave the room and let them bask in the glow of each other’s philanthropic spirits, their shared sense of justice. He feels like an interloper, the fact of his crimes and his accountability for them hanging overhead like a dark cloud. If Sakura is conscious of it too, she does not acknowledge it. “In any case,” she continues, “what I need from the orphanage is as detailed a report as possible of what needs to be done: how many children are in need of therapy, the severity of each case, and so on. Basically, I’m going to need to conduct intake interviews.”

“Oh, well, uh.” Urushi scratches at the scruff on his chin. “That might be a bit difficult. There’s a lot of them, to say the least. We’ve been having some trouble in the past year and a half—lot of sleepless nights and things like that. I mean, I’m happy to help you out, but I don’t know if I’m necessarily an expert.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” she says, holding up both hands and chuckling lightly. “It might take a little time, but I’m capable of handling it on my own.”

Then, for reasons Kabuto cannot possibly fathom, Urushi is possessed to say, “Maybe Kabuto can help you out.”

Sakura’s smile fades, and she immediately goes rigid. It’s as though Urushi suggested enlisting the help of a talking giant isopod. “No, really, it’s perfectly fine,” she says, more firmly this time. “I have the expertise.”

“I mean, so does he, I bet,” Urushi presses, even as Kabuto shoots a _stop talking_ look in his direction.

She glances at Kabuto sideways. “No offense, but I seriously doubt it.” Her tone suggests that she means all the offense in the world.

“Why? You’re both top-notch medical ninja. I’m sure he’s great at mental health stuff.”

This time, they both stare at him in unison. After a lengthy pause, Sakura absolves Kabuto of the responsibility for stating the obvious: “I might contest that.”

“Okay, fair point, but he _is_ a doctor too, kind of. I’m sure if you just give him the questions to ask and the symptoms to look for, he can do it.”

“What are you doing,” Kabuto asks under his breath.

Urushi looks at him for a moment, then back at Sakura. “Look,” he says with a sigh, leaning forward and gesturing as he talks. “We all know about the elephant in the room, right? Let’s just address it. A lot of these kids don’t have families because of him, and even more of them are dealing with trauma from events that he helped instigate. That’s not something that can ever totally be fixed, and it’s never really going to go away.”

“Great pitch, Urushi,” Kabuto mutters.

“Yeah, no kidding,” Sakura adds, glaring at him again.

“Look, just hear me out,” Urushi goes on, determined. “He’s back here now because the Godaime decided to have mercy on him, and so long as he’s here, he should be doing whatever he can to fix his _own_ mistakes. The onus shouldn’t be on other people to do it for him.” He locks his dark-eyed gaze on Kabuto’s, speaking to him directly now. “You _should_ talk to these kids about what happened. They don’t need to know you were involved—there’s no harm done that way. And you can confront the reality of what you did while taking active steps to repair the situation.”

“These kids aren’t guinea pigs for helping him feel better about himself, Urushi-san,” Sakura snaps. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but they need treatment from people who _weren’t_ responsible for their trauma.”

“I’m not saying he should help treat them,” Urushi argues, turning back to her. “Just have him help you with this one small thing. He’s perfectly capable of it, and the faster these intake interviews get done, the faster you can make your case to the Council and get the funding you need.”

But Sakura is already shaking her head. “I’m sorry, Urushi-san, but no. If I needed help, I would have asked my friend Ino or Shizune-senpai. Besides”—she aims a pointed glance at Kabuto—“he’s clearly not chomping at the bit to assist me. I don’t want someone dealing with these vulnerable kids who’s doing it halfheartedly or under duress. No matter _who_ they are.”

Kabuto watches as Urushi opens his mouth, then closes it again, nodding in resignation. He feels a pang, although he’s unsure whether it’s one of guilt, annoyance, or an odd combination of both. _Why do you keep trying,_ he thinks.

Moving along in a would-be brisk manner, Sakura clears her throat, pushing several of the stacks of paper across the table. “Anyhow, Urushi-san, I’m going to need you to sign a few of these waivers, just granting me permission to work with the children. I’ll give you some time to read over them—feel free to ask me any questions you might have, since I drafted them myself. And….” She trails off in that way she does when she wants to address Kabuto without actually addressing him, tapping on a separate stack with her index finger. “I’m going to need these other forms filled out with demographic information about the children from your files, and _these_ ”—she taps another pile of papers—“relate to the projected costs of treating each child. I could use a second set of eyes on these in particular. They’ll help me write up the most detailed possible proposal that I can.”

Kabuto just nods, wordlessly, sliding these towards him and picking up a pen nearest to him. He begins reviewing the detailed budget sheets Sakura has provided, too weary to do anything but acquiesce. Beside him, Urushi clears his throat and reaches for the forms. “Got it,” he says. “Thanks so much, Sakura-san.”

“Of course,” she says. After a short, awkward pause, she rises to stand. “I’ll let you read through those before you sign them. Take your time—I think I’d like some fresh air.”

“Oh—right,” Urushi replies, and Kabuto nearly rolls his eyes at his obvious disappointment. “No worries, Sakura-san.”

She leaves the room, and no sooner is she out of earshot than Urushi mutters, “Man. She’s really cute.”

“If you say so,” Kabuto says, without looking up from the first spreadsheet, jotting down notes and tallies in the margins.

“Yeah, I know, you can’t tell.”

“There’s also the seven-year age gap to account for.”

“Right,” Urushi replies. “Remind me, how old is Orochimaru again?”

Kabuto extends a hand, not making eye contact. “Pass me that file I gave earlier, would you? The one with last month’s expense report.”

“Yeah, thought so.” But he assents, handing it over to Kabuto. “Are you mad at me?”

“Why would I be mad at you.” He presses his pen down a bit too firmly as he does some quick arithmetic, nearly tearing the paper.

“I’m just trying to help, you know. You’re the one making things difficult by being such a dick all the time.”

“I’m doing you a favor. It makes you look more charming in comparison. Besides, I’ve been on very good behavior, considering that the honest thing to do would tell her that this whole plan of hers is doomed from the start.”

Urushi’s brow knits together. “What makes you say that?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Common sense.” Pointing with his pen to the sheet he’s reviewing, Kabuto says flatly, “She’s asking for the bare minimum—these are very frugal estimates that she’s given us, considering the scale of this undertaking. And it’s still going to be at least double what they’re willing to allot for something they see as frivolous. During the last war, this orphanage was barely given enough to pay for rice. The idea of the Council giving the go-ahead for a comprehensive mental health program for over half the children in the village? Completely ludicrous. They’d sooner sell the especially troublesome ones to Ame’s underground trafficking rings—”

“ _Kabuto_.”

“What?” He snaps his gaze onto Urushi, who looks repulsed. “I _didn’t_ say any of that.” Realizing suddenly that he _is_ irate, he stands and picks up the papers he needs. “I’m taking these to my room, I can’t concentrate out here. Go ahead and sign the waivers and gush at each other about how altruistic you both are.” He walks out of the dining hall and upstairs to his room; Urushi, for once, does not try to stop him.

* * *

 “Orochimaru-sama, are you _sure_ this is a good idea?”

Karin’s agitated voice echoes behind him as they trail through the interior of the island laboratory—a place Orochimaru has avoided more in the past year and a half than all the other hideouts combined. Unlike most of the other hideouts, which he’s either abandoned or begun restoring to their former glory, this one has been neglected. It is not so desecrated as to be unsalvageable, but still it has fallen into a state of disorder: scrolls and tomes lying with torn pages and broken spines on the stone floor, shattered glass and spilled fluids from old petri dishes on the tables, scalpels that have corroded and rusted over, darkened preservation liquids in the giant specimen tanks. There is one notable difference from the laboratory he first revisited immediately after the war: the machine that dominates much of the room is now empty, cleared of the contents Kabuto had left behind. Orochimaru saw to that right away. It sits there now, vacant and unused, a grim reminder of the very betrayal that has compelled him to return here.

Suigetsu offers a concise assessment from behind the two of them, shuddering: “Man, this place gives me the fuckin’ creeps.”

“Suigetsu, you say that about _all_ the hideouts,” Karin says.

“This one _especially_. I think I still have blood and snake guts under my fingernails from when we had to clean out the juicer.”

“The _what_?”

“You know.” He points upwards. “The juicer.”

“It’s not a _juicer_.”

“Well, what would _you_ call it?! The snake smoothie machine?”

Orochimaru hears the telltale splashing noise that indicates Karin has tried to hit Suigetsu again, and she hisses for him to be quiet. But he is unfazed, allowing them to bicker amongst themselves as he drifts over silently to the chair in the center of the room. He places a hand atop its back, feeling the grain of the wood against his skin where the paper-thin wrappings have peeled away. Gone is the IV pole that he found next to this same chair all those months ago; scrubbed away are the bloodstains on the floor from twelve years prior. He still remembers that day as clearly as though it happened just last week. He wishes he did not remember. He wishes he did not remember the rush of triumph when Kabuto, still in shock but resigned, took his hand.

Pushing the memory aside, he crosses over to the freezer in the corner of the cavernous room, which has been sealed shut. He performs a quick hand sign, and when the seal vanishes, he pulls open the freezer and hears a soft hiss as the cold air rushes to greet him. It does not take long for him to find the blood samples, contained in small, frost-covered vials, that he’s looking for. They are clearly labeled with the names of the Sound Five: _Kaguya Kimimaro_ , _Sakon and Ukon_ , _Tayuya_ , _Kidōmaru, Jirōbō_.

From behind him, he hears Karin’s voice again. “What do you need those for, Orochimaru-sama?”

Carefully, he pulls the sample of Kimimaro’s blood from its place, brushing away some of the frost; droplets of water linger on his fingertips. Without looking at Karin, he answers with a question of his own: “Yamato is still outside? He didn’t follow us inside to spy more closely?”

With a frustrated grunt, she says, “Yeah, he’s still outside. We’re fine. Orochimaru-sama, can you just explain what it is we’re doing here? Why does that creepy guy need these samples? And why are we helping him in the first place?”

Fair questions, all. Orochimaru is still working through the last one himself. He wants to say that it’s because he’s feeling capricious, maybe a little stir-crazy from the past months of close supervision. It’s not that he’s still looking to be the wind that makes the windmill turn, as it were—he is not looking to be the harbinger of Konoha’s destruction, although if it happens to choke on the bile of its own corruption, he certainly won’t mourn the loss. Perhaps it’s that he’s curious, and a little at the mercy of his own whims, and just the slightest bit resentful. Perhaps he simply wants Kabuto pushed to the point that he at last breaks down, admits that he’s made the worst mistake of his life, and begs to be taken back. Or something along those lines. Orochimaru hasn’t put much thought into it.

“Karin,” he says after a moment. “Keep an eye on Yamato’s chakra signature, won’t you? I’d like to ensure that he doesn’t follow after the runner I’m sending out.”

“But—!”

“Do as I say, Karin,” he says, his voice light but dangerous.

“Ugh, _fine_ ,” she snaps, and as she grumbles about her master’s obstinacy, Orochimaru rolls up his sleeve, bites through the skin of his thumb, and smears the blood across the tattoo on his forearm. The summoning jutsu produces a small white viper that sits before him on the table, greeting him with a flicker of her forked tongue.

“Orochi-kun,” she says in a voice that is almost a whisper, cold and subdued. “It’s been some time.”

“Indeed,” he returns. “I need you to make a delivery for me.”

“Oh?”

He holds up the small vial of frozen blood. “It’s a bit time-sensitive.”

She hisses quietly. “I’ll need extra rats for the rush job, you know.”

“And you’ll have them. Tenfold.”

The summon seems to consider this, tongue flickering through the air again as she smells the vial. “Very well,” she finally says. “To whom am I delivering it?”

“To Root’s old headquarters, beneath the surface of Konohagakure. There might be a barrier in place, but they should be expecting you, so I doubt you’ll have much trouble. Nevertheless, you must exercise the utmost caution and stealth. That is crucial. If you are spotted by any non-Root shinobi, especially the one right outside, you must retreat immediately and alert me.”

“Stealth in addition to speed,” she muses, sounding displeased. “A tall order, Orochi-kun.”

“Name your price, and I will be sure to provide.”

“Man,” he hears Suigetsu gripe in a mutter, “we’re gonna have to hunt down those rats, aren’t we?” He ignores him.

After another moment’s thought, the summon says, “I will decide on my price later.” She uncoils her tail, extending it so that he might place the vial there.

He does so with a smirk, watching her coils wrap securely around the glass. “Much obliged.”

With a quiet humming sound of assent, she disappears in a small puff of smoke, off to complete her mission.

“What was all that about?” Suigetsu pipes up again.

Orochimaru does not answer, turning instead to Karin. “I will need you to assist me with a small task.”

“Oh?” She doesn’t seem impressed, standing there with her arms crossed. “And what would that be?”

“This particular laboratory has outlived its usefulness. Today, I would like you to help me sort through anything that might still be of use to us, so that we can take it and store it elsewhere.”

Though she still looks dissatisfied at being left in the dark about the full extent of his plans, Karin, ever faithful, nods her head. “Whatever you say, Orochimaru-sama.” He feels a twinge of fondness for her, though he recognizes it as opportunistic.

“Uh, hello?” Suigetsu raises his voice and gestures wildly while Jūgo stands beside him, casting his usual disapproving glance downward. “What are he and I supposed to do?!”

Orochimaru chuckles. “Simple,” he says. “When she and I are done, you two will be free to do what you do best. You especially, Suigetsu.”

He blinks. “Eh? What’s that?”

“Destroy the rest of it.”

Suigetsu, for once, seems appeased.

* * *

It’s after dinnertime when Kabuto hears a knock at the door. The sun has been down for about an hour, and he is lying on his bed in the darkness, staring up at the ceiling and thinking about everything and nothing in particular. The paperwork from earlier sits atop his desk, already reviewed and completed.

“Come in,” he calls without moving.

The door cracks open, spilling warm light from the hallway within, and he hears Urushi curse. “Holy shit, bro, do you _have_ to live like a vampire?”

“I’m saving energy,” Kabuto retorts, though he forces himself to get up and retrieve the matchbox from his desk drawer, lighting the single candle that he keeps on its surface. Its dim light swells in that corner of the room, casting long shadows on the floor and walls.

“Not much better, but I’ll take it,” Urushi says, stepping inside holding a tray of food: stir-fry with lotus root and green onions, a bowl of fluffy, still-steaming white rice seasoned with shiso fumi furikake, and a small pot of what Kabuto assumes is green tea. “I brought you dinner.”

“I thought I told you to stop doing that,” Kabuto says, realizing with some chagrin that he sounds exactly like Orochimaru used to when he was in a bad mood. He amends: “Thank you, I mean.”

“Aw, look at you trying to be civil.” Urushi sets the tray down on the desk, crossing over to the bed and seating himself. Kabuto picks up his chopsticks, sitting at his desk with his chair turned halfway between his food and Urushi. “I don’t get how you can eat all your meals like that.”

“Like what?”

“You know, sitting at your desk.”

Kabuto snorts, picking up some lotus root. “Please. You act as though I’m accustomed to eating three square meals a day in the first place. During my Root days it was more like an apple here, a sweet roll or some rice cakes there. Far too many instant noodles. And it wasn’t much better….” As always, he trails off right before he can say _Otogakure_ , as though mentioning it by name will make those years more real, or else set off an alarm that causes the Anbu to descend on him like so many locusts. He shrugs, his meaning implied. “Well. I did a bit more cooking there, but there was no small amount of day-old rice eaten between experiments or keeping order or what-have-you.”

Urushi is quiet for a moment. “You don’t talk about it much.”

“No, I figure you deserve to be spared the details,” he says, eating more stir-fry.

“I guess you’re right.” Sitting at the edge of the bed with his hands clasped between his knees, Urushi twiddles his thumbs, looking uncharacteristically pensive. Kabuto guesses that he’s supposed to inquire as to what’s wrong, but he’s not altogether in the mood.

“What is it” is all he offers, flatly.

It is another long minute before Urushi asks, “Is this what you really want?”

Kabuto feels an anxious lurch in his stomach, his appetite immediately thwarted. He sets down his chopsticks, caught mid-bite of rice, swallowing despite the sudden dryness in his throat. “What makes you say that?” he asks, once he’s processed the question.

“Kabuto, come on.” He sees the weariness in Urushi’s dark eyes, the extinguished optimism. It’s a look that Kabuto has caught glimpses of in recent months, but never has he been face-to-face with it, unobscured in its dwindling sense of hope. “Look, obviously I’m not gonna turn you out or anything. I know this is the best option for you right now. I mean, that’s the point, _I_ know that. But I don’t feel like you do.” Irked at the condescension, Kabuto glances away towards the candle on his desk, but Urushi goes on. “You said you wanted to come back here, but you’ve made it clear that you don’t want anything to do with any of it—not the kids, not Keiri-senpai or Kanpu-senpai, not Sakura-san’s initiative…not even me, sometimes.”

“You’re all right,” Kabuto mutters.

“Come again?”

“I said you’re all right, for being so dense.”

“Gee, thanks.” Urushi sighs, his own voice dropping to a grumble. “I swear, you were always like this, even back then. Obstinate as hell, and a gigantic know-it-all to boot. No one could tell you anything, and you got away with it because you were all sweet and polite and all the grown-ups loved you.”

“You’re forgetting that I was also cute,” Kabuto adds, pouring out a cup of green tea and taking a sip.

“Yeah, big emphasis on that past tense there, buddy. You’re as prickly as all the flora in the Land of Wind now.”

“At least we agree on something.”

Urushi’s lips twitch for the briefest moment into a smile, and then he releases a sigh. “Listen,” he says. “I’m going to ask you a question, and I would really appreciate it if you answered honestly.”

“Have you tried applying for a position with the Intelligence Division? Your tactics are really quite cutting-edge.” When Urushi gives him a look, he clears his throat. “Go on.”

“Do you really want to be here, or do you want to go back?”

The question is asked calmly, but Urushi is not a very good actor: Kabuto sees the dread, and even fear, in his eyes. Sitting across from his brother and deciding how best to word his answer—the only answer he can give—Kabuto recalls something from his earliest weeks at the orphanage twenty years ago.

_“Oi,” a voice calls out from behind Kabuto, and he turns around from his spot on one of the rocks by the pond, a little ways into the forest surrounding the orphanage. He sees that it is Urushi, huffing and trudging his way through the foliage, holding what appear to be two ice cream cones. It is late in the afternoon on a hot July day, and Kabuto has taken one of the books that Mother lent him into the forest, where the trees provide some welcome protection from the sun’s harsh rays. He likes the quiet, the dappled light on all the greenery, the soft babbling of a nearby creek. So when Urushi appears, he finds himself feeling nervous; of all the other children at the orphanage, Urushi is by far the most boisterous, and interactions with him tend to end with Kabuto incurring some small injury._

_“Hi, Urushi-kun,” he greets, closing the book and setting it on his lap._

_Ambling over to him, Urushi holds out one of the cones, the vanilla ice cream already dripping down the cone and onto his hand. He grins. “Got one of these for ya. One of those vendors from the village actually stopped by today! He even gave Mother and the others a discount. Said it was his treat.”_

_“Why?” Kabuto asks, bewildered. “I didn’t ask you for one.”_

_“_ Duh _, I just thought maybe you’d want one! Geez, talk about ungrateful.”_

_“Oh!” Feeling his ears grow warm, Kabuto reaches out to accept the cone, overcoming his aversion to the stickiness. “I’m sorry.”_

_“Don’t say you’re sorry, say thank you.”_

_“Oh—right. Thank you.”_

_Urushi looks at him for a moment and shrugs. “You’re so weird.” Taking a lick of his own ice cream, some of which is already smeared on his face, he glances down at the book on Kabuto’s lap. “What’s that?”_

_“This?” Holding the cone in one hand and hastily licking away some of the ice cream before it can drip down onto the book, Kabuto answers shyly, “It’s a book on biology. Mother let me borrow it since she found me reading it.”_

_“What’s biology?” Urushi goes on eating messily, though he looks interested._

_“Oh. It’s like, science. The science of life. Humans and animals and plants. How bodies work and things like that.”_

_Urushi makes a face. “That sounds hard. You like reading that stuff?”_

_“Well…yes.” He shrugs, looking down as he eats his own ice cream, his pace more leisurely than the other boy’s. “Especially the stuff about the human body. It’s like what medical ninja learn. How different diseases and injuries work, and…how to fix them.”_

_“What kind of injuries?”_

_“I mean, anything, really.” Kabuto feels somewhat uncomfortable with this line of questioning. “Like, broken bones or muscle strains or…head injuries….” He trails off and becomes preoccupied with his ice cream, though out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he can see realization dawn slowly on Urushi’s face._

_“Oh,” Urushi says, shifting awkwardly on his feet. He doesn’t say anything else then, instead moving to sit on a rock beside Kabuto, looking down at the frogs on the bank of the pond. The two of them eat silently, and after what feels like a short eternity, Urushi looks over at Kabuto and asks, “Are you trying to get your memory back?”_

_“I don’t know,” Kabuto says, so self-conscious that he wishes he could sink into the pond and never come back up again. “Maybe. I don’t know if it’s possible.”_

_“I bet you could do it. You’re really smart and stuff.” When Kabuto looks down at him in surprise, he shrugs. “Everybody says so. Mother and the other two. Plus you’re always reading those dumb books all the time.”_

_“Thank you?”_

_“Yeah, you’re welcome.” Taking a bite of his cone with a_ crunch _, Urushi says as he watches the rippling water, “And even if you don’t remember anything, you don’t gotta worry, you know.”_

_“Worry?” Kabuto asks, nearly forgetting his ice cream until he feels a drop on his hand, which he licks away. “About what?”_

_“You know, about anything. I’ll look after you.” Another_ crunch _. “We’re family now. And since you’re all puny and dorky, I gotta make sure nobody bothers you.”_

_Kabuto doesn’t know what to say. He blinks, his vision suddenly blurry. Something in his chest swells until it feels as though it might burst through his ribcage. The same something that reduced him to tears that first night, when Mother gave him her glasses. He looks at Urushi, who appears blissfully unaware of his words’ impact as he finishes up his snack. Kabuto smiles._

_Ultimately, “I’m not_ puny _” is all that he mumbles in response._

_“Nah, you definitely are. I could throw you across this pond if I wanted.”_

_“Hey!” he objects._

_“What? Are you gonna hit me with that giant book of yours? How did you even_ lift _that thing, anyway?” They are both laughing now, and they go on in this way until it is time to go back for dinner._

_Kabuto realizes something that afternoon—that for all of Urushi’s friendliness to everyone, there is something strangely lonely about him. There is a fracture in him that Kabuto can’t quite place, but he picks up on it all the same, and part of him suspects that Urushi has been waiting for someone like him for a while. Someone quiet and sensitive enough to temper his rambunctious energy, yet thick-skinned enough to withstand his blunt streak. They have little in common but their brokenness, but after that day, it becomes common for the adults to refer to them as a unit—there go Kabuto and Urushi, joined at the hip._

Looking at this person he knows inside and out, yet not at all, Kabuto gives the answer that he is supposed to: “There’s nothing there for me anymore. I’m sorry that the adjustment period has been so difficult, but this is where I want to be.” He infuses as much sincerity as he can into his voice as Urushi beholds him with uncharacteristic skepticism. “Just give me a little more time.”

The truth hovers between them like a large soap bubble, dangerously close to breaking if one of them breathes too loudly or makes a careless movement. They look at each other through it, and they each know that the other person knows, but once more they let it be. Urushi simply nods. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

_Coward_ , Kabuto thinks. “Thank you for dinner,” he says, having no desire to dwell on the subject. “I’m sorry, but would you mind if I finished it alone? I’ll bring down my dishes when I’m done.”

Urushi nods again. “Yeah, sure.” He stands, shoving his hands into his pockets. After a moment’s hesitation, he says, “I think maybe you should start trying to eat with everyone else more often, though. Think you can manage?”

Kabuto hates being spoken to like an errant child, but he decides now isn’t the time to pick a fight. “I’ll make an effort.”

“Cool.” Clearing his throat and adjusting his cap on his head, Urushi makes his way out of the room. “Have a good night, bro,” he says, stepping out and closing the door behind him.

Almost immediately, Kabuto leans back in his seat and heaves a sigh, running his hands over his face and pushing up his glasses in the process. All that this conversation has achieved is making him want to send a messenger summon to the Land of Sound, inquiring about the next rendezvous. He would like to stab something, frankly, but sex is an almost equally effective method for venting his frustration. Goddamn Urushi and his goddamn moral compass and his goddamn _loyalty_ and _expectations_ —

He suddenly goes rigid, his entire nervous system on alert. He jumps up from his seat at the precise moment that a rock comes crashing in through the window, shattering it and sprinkling glass on the floor.

Still in fight-or-flight mode, Kabuto darts silently to the window, crouching beneath the sill and quickly peering outside. Nothing. He narrows his eyes and then closes them, trying to pick up on any nearby chakra signatures. None that he can detect. Whoever threw the rock is already gone, at least for the moment. He opens his eyes and looks over at the offending object.

A regular rock, as far as he can see, with one small anomaly: there is a note attached with a rubber band. Kabuto feels his alertness slowly receding to aggravation. How utterly juvenile. Another bit of hate mail from a Konoha shinobi, he’d put money on it. He should have seen this coming; it’s been a while since the last time the side of the building was graffitied with threats and obscenities.

Already thinking ahead to the annoyance of having to clean up the glass, Kabuto walks over and pulls the note loose, standing up straight and reading it. At first, it bores him. It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before: _This village will never be your home. Your days here are numbered._

And then a chill spreads through his body.

_We are everywhere. We will not relent. We will ensure that once you are back in a cell, they never make the mistake of setting you free again._ _By the time we are finished, you will wish you could share in her fate._

“What—”

Without warning, the piece of scrap paper becomes engulfed in a bright blue flame, and he drops it instinctively, watching as it disappears in less than an instant.

He stands there in the silent, dimly lit room, staring at the rock where it lies innocuously on the floor. From outside, crickets chirp, but the sound feels dull and muted, like he has cotton in his ears. The smell of the food on his desk, however faint, is making him vaguely nauseous. It’s as though some of his senses are broken and others are working _too_ well. When he finally regains his ability to speak, all he can utter is a stunned expletive that no one, as far as he knows, is around to hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here it is!!! chapter 3!!!! after literally an entire month of letting it sit in my doc!!!!!! sorry that I lied about cutting these for length but at least one of you indicated that the length of chapter 2 wasn't a major deterrent so I took that and ran with it. thank u for enabling me
> 
> I really love writing Sakura and I'm so excited to share my interpretation of her with you guys.. also Urushi and Sui continue to very transparently be my favorite boys. Kabuto could never hope to compare and I think he knows it. he just got some anon hate so he MUST know
> 
> thank you to everyone for continuing to read and comment!! please do feel free to let me know what you're enjoying/would like to see more of! I already have a lot of writing done but my editing process is probably going to get more rigorous soon, so I'd love to be able to incorporate feedback if possible!
> 
> this chapter title is from "Always Gold" by Radical Face, many thanks to Raz for the song rec so I can be emo about brothers forever


	4. the medics

_You really ought to inform someone in a position of authority_ , Itachi’s voice chimes in as Kabuto arrives at the Konoha Hospital. It is around noon the next day, and Kabuto has ventured into the village proper for this particular meeting, dodging all manner of the usual glances and mutters. He’s not about to be deterred now, not when his chances of being besieged by a mob, or at least spit on, before he returns home are so high.

As he as ascends the short flight of steps to the front doors, holding a file at his side, Kabuto retorts, “You know, just once, I’m going to have to ask you to stop being such a narc.”

_I don’t think the name-calling is necessary._  

“You policed the _police_ and then murdered them all because the government told you to. _Narc_ isn’t an insult, it’s the understatement of the century.”

_You’re avoiding the issue._

“Yes, that’s a talent of mine,” he replies absently, stepping into the lobby and feeling the sterile chill of the hospital even through his long robes. For all his medical expertise and love of order and precision, he has never much liked hospitals, which he supposes doesn’t make him unique. Or maybe he just doesn’t like hospitals run by other people; when things are under his control, well, that’s a different matter. All around him are the sounds of a high-traffic, high-stress institution: the beeping of equipment, the charged voices of medic-nin, nurses, and orderlies, the squeak of gurney wheels rolling down the hall, and the occasional moan of pain or distress. When he walks into the waiting area, there is a distinct hush: the administrator at the front desk halts mid-conversation with a patient, and several people sitting down stare openly, their expressions ranging from horror to anger to fascination.

_Should’ve just gone in through a window_ , Kabuto thinks.

_No, you shouldn’t have_ , Itachi corrects. _That’s what spies and criminals do._  

_And?_

_And you’re here for a legitimate reason. You came to speak to Sakura-san._

“Right,” he says under his breath. “Legitimate.”

“Hey,” says a Jōnin sitting to Kabuto’s right, gripping a poorly bandaged wound on his upper arm, suspicion in his voice. “Aren’t you that guy?”

“I’m nobody,” he answers shortly, making his way to the front desk before the Jōnin can accost him further. The administrator sits rigidly, saying something in an undertone to the patient in front of her—Kabuto sees her lips form something approximating _hold on just a moment_.

“Can I help you, Yakushi-san?” she greets coolly.

“I don’t need the celebrity treatment,” he deadpans. “I can wait.” Even without turning around, he is hyper-conscious of the heads that have snapped up at the utterance of his surname. He’s almost positive that she did that on purpose. 

“What is it that you’re here for?” she asks. The administrator, a plain-faced woman who looks to be in her late twenties, isn’t anyone that he recognizes. He wonders idly whether anyone close to her died in the war. The frostiness in her brown eyes would indicate yes.

“I’m here to see Haruno Sakura.” He holds up the file that he brought with him. Beside him, the patient she was talking to visibly flinches at the movement, and it is a testament to his years of stifling his emotions that he doesn’t laugh. “I have some paperwork pertaining to her mental health initiative that she asked for.”

“I see. Well, you can just leave those with me, Yakushi-san. I’ll ensure that she gets them.”

“As much as I appreciate your helpfulness,” he says, watching her eye twitch, “I need to meet with her in person so that we might review some of the logistics. It’s a collaborative effort, you know. Ensuring that the children at the orphanage are included in the hospital’s efforts to address pediatric mental health across the board.” He is sure to place an emphasis on all the buzzwords.

“How philanthropic of you,” she says, tone sour. “As it happens, however, Haruno-san has a very busy schedule today, between meetings and treating patients.”

“Oh? You have her schedule memorized?” Before she can retort, he goes on, “No matter. I understand that she has a great deal of responsibility. I’m perfectly content to wait for her next availability. I don’t suppose you could tell me when that is, just off the top of your head?”

The administrator, flushing angrily, opens her mouth to respond, but she is cut off by a weary voice from off to Kabuto’s side. “Rina-san, please don’t let him get to you. It’s not worth the energy.”

Kabuto glances over, a wry smile on his lips. “Shizune-san. It’s been a while.”

Shizune stands before him with a clipboard in hand, appraising him with the usual mixture of caution and premature exasperation that he’s become familiar with in recent months. Loath as he would be to admit it, Shizune is one of the select few people, along with her sensei, that Kabuto is actually wary of pissing off. If only because he’s certain she’s been looking to drive her poisoned senbon into his neck since the first time she laid eyes on him, and she doesn’t seem like the type who would hesitate.

“Kabuto,” she replies, not bothering with an honorific. “Is there any particular reason why you’re antagonizing the staff?”

“You wound me.” Once more, he holds up the file. “I was only trying to find out when I can meet with Sakura-san to discuss some of the details of her initiative, but it appears I’m being blackballed. Odd, considering that she was the first one to reach out to coordinate with the orphanage, which I am technically a representative of.” He hears the young woman named Rina scoff from behind him, and he goes on without flinching, “I can only assume that certain personnel here lack the seniority or clearance to be informed about the initiative, because the only other explanation I can think of for the dodginess is that Sakura-san has died or gone away on some top-secret mission.”

Shizune is now giving him a look that he’s grown familiar with over the years—it’s the expression of someone who has been reluctantly worn down, if only to shut him up. “Are you done?” she asks.

“I think so, provided we understand each other.”

Sighing, she runs a hand through her dark hair and begins turning down the nearest hallway. “Whatever will keep you from causing a scene, if this is so important. Just know I reserve the right to have you thrown out if Sakura-chan seems less enthusiastic about meeting with you.”

He smiles, wry but cooperative. “Duly noted.”

“Shizune-san!” Rina protests. 

“Relax, Rina-san. I know how to handle him.” When Shizune is a few paces ahead of him, Kabuto can’t resist a moment of pointed eye contact with the young administrator—he’s not in a good enough mood to be smug, but he can still savor these small victories.

As Shizune leads him down a short hallway leading to a flight of stairs, her heels clicking on the linoleum, Kabuto decides to try for a bit of small talk: “You look well, Shizune-san.”

Without looking at him, jotting something down on her clipboard, Shizune says evenly, “I think you and I both know that the only reason I’m entertaining this impromptu visit of yours is because I respect Tsunade-sama too much to go against her edict.”

“I see. Which edict are we referring to, just so I’m clear?”

“The one that specifically frowns upon killing you on sight.” 

“Just ‘frowns upon’?”

“To call it ‘forbidden’ would lessen the gravity of acts that are _actually_ forbidden.” 

“That’s very comforting, thank you.”

Ascending to the top of the stairs, she turns to face him sharply, her eyes like flint that has been struck. He catches a glimpse of her thigh as her kimono whips around, and pretends that he didn’t. “Do you remember the circumstances under which you and I met?” 

“I do,” he replies, keeping his eyes on her, though he dislikes having to crane his neck from several steps below her.

“You showed up out of nowhere with _him_ and tried to entice Tsunade-sama into healing his arms by offering to resurrect her brother and _my_ uncle. Then you nearly killed us both.”

“Yes, I know. I was there.”

When her eyes flash again, practically throwing off sparks, he half-expects (half-hopes?) to find himself inhaling a cloud of the toxins she is so renowned for. What he gets instead is a look more poisonous than any jutsu, and a tightly controlled reply. “Then you should understand why I might not be inclined to prioritize your _comfort_.”

Kabuto does not know why his first instinct is to say something to the effect of _If you don’t think_ I _look well, you could have just said so_. Or something equally, or even more, combative. Something about how it’s not his fault she had been so easy to take down all those years ago. Call it a masochistic streak.

_Negative attention is still affirmation that you exist, after all_ , Itachi’s voice supplies.

_Please. I’m not some lonely, errant child_ , Kabuto thinks back.

But “Itachi’s” insight has him ill at ease as he follows Shizune to an office down the second-floor hallway, holding his tongue all the while. This time he finds himself taking note of how she walks, the shifting of dark fabric across her curves. He is instantly annoyed—it has not even been two full days since he got laid. Not nearly enough time for him to be projecting his desires onto the nearest person with a supple body who radiates killing intent in his direction. He decides to attribute it to stress.

Before knocking on the closed office door, Shizune turns to him abruptly. They stand barely a foot apart from one another, their similar heights bringing their faces into even closer proximity. Under her veneer of diplomatic civility, Kabuto swears he can see the hatred in her pupils. Deep beneath the surface, like something that’s drifted to the bottom of a body of water.

“Tell me now,” she says, voice low. The office is not centrally located, and no one else is around. Even the overhead lights are not as glaring here; half of Shizune’s face is cast in shadow. “What are you _really_ here for?”

Kabuto’s lips turn upwards in a smirk. “Don’t trust me?”

“I’m not an idiot.”

“You know, Shizune-san, I’ve never lied to you. Even back then, when we approached you and Tsunade-sama, he and I were very forthcoming about our terms. It’s not my fault you didn’t care for them.”

The cool blade of the scalpel is pressed against his neck before he can blink. She glowers at him as she wields it, her expession begging him to test her. “Rethink that answer,” she hisses.

He holds his hands up in front of his chest. “Easy,” he says. “Don’t want to make the janitorial staff mop up more blood than they have to. Besides, killing an unofficial member of the order who runs the orphanage? Seems like a bad look.”

She actually laughs at this, dryly, not moving the scalpel from his neck. He is careful not to make any sudden movements; it would be such a bitch of a wound to heal. “Right,” she sighs. “You’re a man of the cloth now, right? Taken your vows?”

“Not exactly,” he says, his own voice lowering. “But the village certainly took care of the flagellation part for me.”

“Figuratively?" 

“I’ll let you use your imagination.” 

Their eyes remain locked on each other for a moment longer. He can see her appraising him. Finally, she says, “If you’re here to see Sakura for any nefarious purposes, I can make whatever they did seem tame.” She delivers the threat calmly, like she does it every day between filing paperwork and ushering Tonton from the office to Tsunade’s residence.

His smile remains, plastered to his lips. “A tall order to follow,” he says cryptically. “You have my word, Shizune-san, I have no malicious intent. Feel free to do your worst if I turn out to have been lying.”

“You don’t need to tell me twice,” she says, and turns to knock on the door. Before she can, however, it opens from within, and Sakura stands there in the threshold. She is wearing a lab coat, her long hair pulled back and a bemused smile on her face.

“Thank you, Shizune-senpai,” she says. “I’ll take it from here.”

Shizune smiles back, though she still looks wary. “If you need my help….”

“I’ll call for you right away. No worries, though. I think you’ve scared him enough.”

With a nod, Shizune shoots one last warning look in Kabuto’s direction, then turns on her heel to depart down the hall. As her heels click softly away, Kabuto turns to Sakura. “I do love being passed around like a hot potato among all the women here. Is Tsunade-sama next after you?”

Sakura’s smile is positively caustic. “Guess we just can’t get enough of you.”

“Evidently.”

She does not budge from the doorway. “What do you want.” Her gaze lowers to the file in his hand. “Bit of a transparent excuse, don’t you think?”

“Excuse me if I don’t feel the need to exercise all my creative muscles sneaking around a village that let me take the Chūnin Exams seven times.”

She shrugs. “You know, that’s fair.” Turning back into her office, she waves a hand, gesturing for him to come in. “Close the door behind you, if you must. I won’t raise the alarm.”

“Much obliged.” He heeds her words, stepping inside and sliding the door shut. A quick glance around the small room reveals a bright, orderly working environment: neatly organized bookshelves, a desk with minimal clutter and one or two framed pictures—Team Seven and her parents, he guesses—as well as the nice touch of a single daffodil on the sunny windowsill. Kabuto has always found that you can tell a lot about a person by their workspace. He is struck by a flash of memory, an image like a camera snapshot: _illegible notes on crumpled scraps of paper, half-eaten persimmons that have begun to rot, a flask from a forgotten titration, scrolls and books piled one on top of the other_. Sakura’s office is not characterized by such disorder; if anything, it reminds Kabuto of the ways in which the two of them are quite similar.

Maybe he can appeal to those similarities when asking for her help.

Standing at the far end of the room by the window, Sakura sighs and looks him over. “Okay,” she says. “You have ten, fifteen minutes tops. I’m in and out of surgeries and meetings all afternoon.” So the front desk administrator wasn’t lying just to get rid of him. No matter. He can keep it brief.

Kabuto takes a breath. “I hope you understand,” he begins, “that I wouldn’t be turning to you if I weren’t out of other options.”

“Promising start,” she deadpans. “Flattering.”

“You know what I mean. You ought to appreciate that I respect your time enough to not run to you for help unless absolutely necessary.”

“True,” she says. “We’re not exactly friends.”

“Right. We’re on the same page.” He hesitates. “With that being said, there’s been a…development that I don’t know I can handle without help from someone on the inside. But not _too_ inside, if you catch my drift.”

Her brows come together in a frown. “Kabuto, what the hell are you on about?”

Kabuto looks right into her green eyes. “I need to know if you have any information about anyone who might want me dead.”

Sakura stares at him for perhaps a full ten seconds. “That list might take a while to draw up,” she says slowly. “Do you just want the full citizen registry?”

“I meant specific information. About any legitimate plots that are developed beyond a passing whim.” 

She continues to look unimpressed. “Paranoid, are you?”

“Please. As if I’d come to you for help easing some vague worries.” He takes a step closer to her, lowering his voice once he’s failed to detect any chakra signatures of anyone close enough to listen in. “Last night, I received an anonymous message from some sort of… _collective_ threatening me with retribution for my crimes. Not the first of its kind that I’ve received, let me assure you, but what concerns me is the use of the first-person plural. It sounds to me like some kind of vigilante group.” 

She raises an eyebrow. “‘Vigilante group’?” she repeats.

“They wrote, ‘We are everywhere. We will not relent.’ What else would you call that?”

Slowly, something dawns on her face that looks like apprehension. “Could just be an empty threat,” she says quietly, but Kabuto can tell that she’s thinking out loud, mulling it over. “Still, if it’s not….”

“This might spell trouble for more than just me,” he finishes. “If there’s a group at large seeking to undercut the Godaime’s orders.”

She looks back at him. “You swear you’re not making this up?”

“Sakura, what motive could I possibly have for bringing you some imaginary plot to take me down?”

“When have you _ever_ had a clear motive for doing _anything_ that you do?” she snaps.

He shrugs. “Difficult to contest.”

Sakura huffs, brushing some hair away from her face. “Okay, let me think,” she says. And then, after a moment: “Okay. Listen. If we’re really going to take this seriously, then the first thing we should do is talk to Tsunade-sama about it.”

“No,” he says automatically. “Absolutely not.”

Her eyes flash with aggravation. “What do you mean, _no_? For god’s sake, Kabuto, she’s on your side! How else do you think you got out of prison and were allowed to roam free in the first place? She advocated for you, you know. And besides, if there’s a threat to her authority, she ought to be the first to know about it.”

But he shakes his head. “She’s too compromised. The Council, the Intelligence Division, the Anbu—she’s surrounded on all sides by institutional power. Easily corruptible. Already _demonstrated_ to be corrupt, in fact. If we tell her about this before we have more information and the upper hand, then the fact that we’re investigating will get back to the collective right away. Whoever they are and wherever they might have eyes and ears.”

“I thought you said you weren’t paranoid,” she points out. 

“I’m not. I’ve just been a spy for over fifteen years, and frankly, sensitive intel is to this village what sand is to a colander.”

Sakura, though she looks torn, appears to concede this point. Chewing absently on her bottom lip, she says after a moment, “I guess we might hold off for a little bit, especially if it _does_ turn out to be nothing. But,” she adds, her tone sharpening, “if she’s in _any kind_ of danger, we tell people right away. Her, Shizune-senpai, Kakashi-sensei—people we trust.”

Kabuto is reluctant, but he also knows he has little choice but to acquiesce. “Fine. _If_ we can definitively prove that she’s at any _immediate_ risk.”

“And in exchange for my help, I want _you_ to help me get funding for the mental health initiative.”

He didn’t expect that. “Sure,” he says. “Did you want my contribution in ryō, or can I put it on credit?”

“Don’t be a smartass. I know you can help me figure something out. Just pretend it’s—I don’t know, a grant for replacing children’s blood with acid instead of treating their PTSD, or whatever it is you used to do in Otogakure.”

“Ah, yes. One of my premier responsibilities in Oto: grant writing.” When she gives him a look, he relents. “Fine. I’ll see what I can do. Still a better alternative than being thrown in prison overnight because I tried to get to the bottom of this without backup.”

“Or being killed,” she adds. 

He considers. “No, I think I’m going to stick with prison as the worst-case scenario.”

Sakura sighs, leaning back against the windowsill and looking outside with her arms folded. “I suppose it wouldn’t be _too_ much trouble to help you. Not like I’m doing much else at the moment.”

Kabuto raises an eyebrow. “Right, besides assisting the Godaime with reconstruction efforts, helping run a hospital, and trying to single-handedly implement a new mental health program.”

A surprised smirk flits across her features as she glances back at him. “Am I going crazy, or did you just compliment me?”

“Your work ethic, yes. I don’t think calling you hardworking is a particularly controversial statement.”

She shakes her head. “You really _do_ need my help.”

“I resent that. I’ve always called things as I saw them. Besides, I don’t know how you could possibly arrive at the conclusion that you’re _not doing much else_.”

Sakura shrugs, but he can see that his pushback has thrown her off. When she looks back out the window, she doesn’t seem wholly present, something strange and wistful about her voice. “Oh, I don’t know. Probably a little cabin fever, that’s all. Things are finally starting to feel _normal_ around here again, but…I don’t really know what ‘normal’ means. It’s like everyone is doing some weird pantomime of what they think normal looks like.” She falters for a moment, and Kabuto sees her fingers tighten slightly in the white sleeves of her lab coat. “We won the war, you know? But things are still so…. Sasuke, he’s off doing who-knows-what, and Naruto-kun’s been so _listless_. It’s not like him at all. And I barely ever see him these days anyway, he spends so much time on Mount Myōbuku or in Sunagakure—”

Abruptly, she seems to remember that Kabuto is standing there, and she breaks off. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” she says.

“It’s unclear,” Kabuto concedes. “I believe you just told me five minutes ago that we’re not friends.”

“We’re not,” she reasserts, straightening up a little.

“Fine,” he says with a shrug. After a pause, he adds, “But if I might offer my opinion—”

“No use trying to stop you,” she mutters.

“You probably ought to put them both out of your mind.”

She snorts. “Typical. Thank you for being so reliable, Kabuto. I always know exactly what kind of ‘advice’ you’re going to give.”

“I mean it. You’re wasting valuable energy wondering what the two of them are up to and second-guessing whether what you’re doing is sufficient. And for what? I highly doubt they’re spending the same amount of time or energy thinking about you, susceptible as they both are to tunnel vision.”

Her expression frosts over instantly, and Kabuto suspects that he is not far from getting punched through several walls. “All of this coming from the one whose go-to advice was _always_ ‘just forget about Sasuke.’”

“Right. And how has not heeding that advice been working out for you and Naruto-kun?”

Instead of punching him, she delivers a far more effective blow: “I don’t know, Kabuto, how has _just forgetting about_ a certain someone else been going for _you_?”

He does not move or visibly react. “How do you know,” he finally manages after a tense moment.

“Yamato-taichō is my friend, dumbass. I mean, you didn’t really think you were doing a good job of sneaking around, did you?”

“I’m not trying to keep it a _secret_ ,” he says, although his voice has dropped to a mutter and he finds himself glancing around. “But if the whole _village_ knows—”

“Oh, relax. If he thought it was something the higher-ups ought to be concerned about, then you would have already faced an investigation or some kind of punitive action.” Her green eyes glint with amusement now that she’s regained the upper hand. “Tsunade-sama seems to think it’s pretty funny, actually.”

Kabuto glares at her. “You’ve made your point,” he says. “You’ll help me conditionally, then?”

She smiles sweetly. “ _Very_ conditionally. Keep in mind that I don’t owe you anything. If you can’t keep your mouth shut about my friends or my choices, there’s nothing forcing me to keep _my_ mouth shut.”

_Not yet_ , Kabuto thinks venomously, but he does not doubt her warning for a second, so he just nods. “Acknowledged.”

She nods back. “Good. Now, if you don’t mind, I have work to get back to before I can start investigating.”

“Wait,” he says, remembering something.

“What?” she asks, plainly annoyed. “Look, I don’t have all day for this—”

“I know. I just need you to promise to keep this a secret from Urushi.”

Sakura blinks. “Your brother? He doesn’t know about this?”

“No, and I need for it to stay that way.” Kabuto realizes that by saying things like _need_ , he is just giving Sakura something else to potentially use against him later, but he takes the risk. “He’s been having enough doubts lately about whether my staying here can work out. And he seems to care about me, for some reason. This is the last thing he needs. It would just cause him even more unnecessary worry.”

She looks puzzled. “So…basically, you’re asking me for a favor for completely unselfish reasons?”

Kabuto considers for a moment. “I suppose so,” he answers. It’s uncomfortable to admit.

“Huh.” After looking him over once as though trying to discern if he’s an imposter, Sakura shrugs and sits down at her desk. “Whatever you say, I guess. My lips are sealed. Now, if you’ll excuse me….” She withdraws some stationery and takes out a pen. “I have a letter to write.”

He’s curious, but he decides not to push his luck by asking questions, merely nodding once more instead. “I’ll see you soon, then.” Before leaving the room, he places the file down on her desk. “And do let me know if there are any questions or concerns about the paperwork.”

Their eyes meet for a moment. “Right,” she says. “Will do.”

Satisfied, or at the very least appeased, Kabuto turns and lets himself out of the office. Once outside, the door shut behind him again, he releases a heavy exhale, conscious of the tension in his shoulders now that some of it has been alleviated. His mind is still racing the way it has been since the night before, but at least he has this small bit of insurance now: Sakura can at least function as a witness if anything worse happens than messages on rocks thrown through his bedroom window. Probably he _is_ just being paranoid; probably it’s just someone particularly clever and vindictive, acting alone, trying to get a rise out of him. Nothing to dwell on for longer than he has to. It will be resolved sooner rather than later, he’s increasingly sure of that.

Walking down the hall and back downstairs, he is about to make his way to the exit when he detects something that makes him halt on the tiled floor. Chakra signatures—one in particular that he not only recognizes, but that makes him go rigid, his mouth suddenly dry. _Fuck_ , he thinks. _Why would he be here now?_  

Sure enough, as he stands there in the middle of an otherwise empty hallway on the first floor, a too-familiar figure turns the corner, flanked by two individuals that together could match his hulking frame. _Really?_ he thinks bitterly. _Backup? For what?_ But he does not say anything, watching in resignation as the visitor to the hospital stops a couple of yards away, hands deep in the pockets of his long leather jacket, a smirk on his thin lips twisted by scars.

“Yakushi,” Morino Ibiki greets in his low, trademark grumble. “Long time no see. Got a minute to talk?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for making all of you wait so long and then giving you this dialogue-heavy and decidedly unhorny installment. mea culpa. BUT, on the other hand, Sakura is here. also Kabuto's lowkey misogyny, which I regret to say is always fun to write. I always wished that these two had more interaction in canon since I found their dynamic interesting and like, very funny. (their dynamic mainly being Kabuto making some smart comment and Sakura being like "shut up four-eyes you're an annoying pos" and him being like Maybe So.gif)
> 
> thank you thank you to everyone who's continued to leave comments!! know that even when I'm slow to replying (which is All Of The Time) I see and am GREATLY motivated by the enthusiasm/anticipation. I hope to get the next chapter up much sooner so that we can hurry along to another reunion between the protagonists. which is probably the main thing people are here for. sweats
> 
> kudos/commented appreciated!


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